Pedophile
by Flagg1991
Summary: After fifteen years in prison, child molester Lincoln Loud returns to Royal Woods where he attempts to put the pieces of his life back together while battling his demons and being stalked by an overzealous police detective. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. Coming Home

**Lyrics to** _ **The Boys of Summer**_ **by Don Henley (1984)**

Lincoln Loud stepped off the Greyhound at the Royal Woods station at 2pm on a Tuesday afternoon, all of his worldly possessions packed into a ratty Nike gym bag with room to spare. He wore brown corduroy pants, two sizes too big and with worn knees, and a faded red and green checkered shirt that hung slack from his emaciated frame. His hair was short and neatly combed, his eyes were red and bleary with sleeplessness, and his chin was covered in three days worth of stubble.

When the bus pulled to the platform, the dread that had been building in his stomach for two days crested, and it took everything he had to keep from shaking with nerves. He hoped to never see this goddamn town again, and if the court hadn't ordered he live with his mother, he wouldn't have come back - too many bad memories, too many ghosts. A decade and a half might be a long time, but it's not long enough for people to forget. He spent the first twenty years of his life here, he had friends and classmates and coworkers - they would recognize him, and word would get out. Royal Woods was a small town, and all it took was for one person to see him and remember, and by the end of the day, everyone would know.

Stepping off the bus into a dry blast of August air, Lincoln looked nervously around, but being early in the afternoon on a weekday, the platform was empty save for a man in a loud Hawaiian shirt and a woman in a denim dress. A man in sunglasses stood at the payphone and gestured wildly with his free hand while a bored looking teenage girl stood behind the ticket counter, her face resting in her palm and her jaw working as she masticated a piece of chewing gum. Lincoln hefted the bag over his shoulder and went around the side of the building, following the footsteps of a much younger man like riding a bike for the first time in years. Town was a mile ahead, its low brick buildings flanking tree-lined Main Street and a blue water tower with ROYAL WOODS across the front rising over their roofs. Black, wrought iron lamp posts marched along the sidewalk, and people in light, summery clothes moved unhurriedly past glass storefronts, enjoying the weather. Lincoln spotted a woman pushing a stroller, her eyes hidden behind big sunglasses, and a man in an apron sweeping the concrete before the butcher's shop. When Lincoln was a kid, the butcher was Mr. Greene, a big, round-stomached man with twinkling eyes and an accent no one could ever place. He was sixty-three when Lincoln went away, surely long since retired.

A red convertible with the top down passed in the street, music drifting from its onboard radio and lightly scenting the air. Lincoln could just make out the words.

 _Nobody on the road,_

 _Nobody on the beach_

 _I feel it in the air_

 _The summer's out of reach_

 _Empty lake, empty streets_

 _The sun goes down alone_

For some inexplicable reason, Lincoln's stomach clutched, and his resolve began to crumble. He turned to flee, but stopped himself. If he didn't go home and see his probation officer today, they would send the cops...and they would take him back to prison.

Cold horror spread through him, and the fear of going back, of taking more beatings, of being raped again, was stronger than his fear of Royal Woods.

Swallowing thickly, he forced himself on, waiting for a truck to pass before crossing to the other side of the street. He threw worried glances over his shoulder as he walked, each time half sure that a cop would be there to put him in cuffs and take him back - after so long in jail, he must _smell_ like it, and everyone knew what he was even if none of them remembered.

He was passing the bank when a woman with red hair and hazel eyes came out, rummaging in her purse for keys or a breath mint. She looked up, and their gazes met - Lincoln saw in her the same knee-jerk horror he _felt_.

Cristina.

His heart blasted and, turning his head away quick enough to give himself whiplash he hurried his step. He could feel her eyes hot on the back of his neck as he rushed across Maple Street, and he fought hard to keep from looking over his shoulder. By sundown, Royal Woods would be abuzz with the news that Lincoln Loud was back - he could already imagine the rubberneckers driving back and forth in front of his mother's house, walking by and craning their necks to catch a glimpse, maybe even shouting obscenities and throwing things the way they did during the trial, when he didn't even live there.

He was three blocks away now, the businesses overlooking the way replaced by houses with big front yards. A ball rolled across his path and he stopped...then froze when a little blonde girl in a pink dress came after it, the wind playing in her hair. Before he could stop them, his eyes flicked to her bare legs - her skin was bronze and sun-kissed, lime green ankle socks playing peek-a-boo with the tops of her white tennis shoes. He turned his head away and pushed back against the dark urges rising in his stomach. She stooped, picked the ball up, and bounced by into her yard, glancing at him with a wary expression. When she was gone, he scurried on, his hand gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turned white.

That was the past, he thought; he wasn't like that anymore. He was normal now, cured - he went through programs in prison, therapy, he was the master of his domain and his domain no longer included...certain things.

 _Focus on something else,_ the prison psychiatrist told him, and now he did, steering his mind toward the future; it turned slowly, ponderously, like a giant passenger liner away from a deadly iceberg, but it _did_ turn.

He had a lot to do over the coming week. First, he needed to see his PO, then go to the DMV and reinstate his driver's license, then look for a job, then, eventually, his own place. He was thirty-five and everything he owned amounted to two changes of clothes, a paperback copy of ' _Salem's Lot_ that he'd read to tatters, and his prison toiletry kit; he was middle-aged and starting over from scratch, which struck him as so pathetic he almost cried.

When he reached the house ten minutes later, he came to a shuffling stop and looked up at it, a swirling mix of emotions he couldn't identify rushing through him. He hadn't been here in fifteen years, but he saw it every night in his dreams, a perfect, sepia toned snapshot unchanging and set.

It looked like he remembered it...but _different_. The vinyl siding was dirty and loose and shingles peeled back from the roof; the lawn was overgrown but free of clutter, no toys because children no longer lived here - all of his sisters had gone off into the world some (like Lori) into marriage and others (like Lily) to college.

And then there was Dad.

Lincoln's mood darkened as he remembered Mom breaking the news to him over the phone - a fatal heart attack at age fifty-three. Fifty-three...maybe that doesn't seem young to a kid, but it is, way too young to die at any rate. He lobbied the prison to let him attend the funeral, but they turned him down; his request form came back with a big red stamp: DENIED. _Prisoner 345359 is a danger to society and should not be allowed into it until his date of release._

Danger to society.

Like he was a mad dog.

He sighed and looked away from the facade of his childhood home - it was too painful to look at, because in it, he could clearly see the passage of years, and when he thought of all the time he missed, all the events, the births, the deaths, he sank into depression, and today was not a day to be depressed, it was one to be happy. For better or worse, he was home, and he could start putting his life back together. The prospect honestly excited him - he was at rock bottom, but when you're down, there's just one way to go. The world teemed with possibilities - he felt the way an immigrant must have felt as they passed through Ellis Island in 1901: He could do anything he wanted, be anything he wanted, and if he worked hard and saved, all of his dreams would one day come true.

A slamming door drew his attention to the neighboring house - it belonged to Mr. Grouse when he went to jail, but he died the following winter, Mom told him, and new people moved in. Someone came down the porch steps, and Lincoln's heart sank.

It was a girl - eleven or twelve, with dark brown hair pulled back in a jaunty ponytail. She was lithe and slim, clad in a short, sleeveless blue dress that revealed her dainty arms and shapely legs.

Tested, he decided, he was being tested. Three years ago, as he lay in the prison infirmary after another savage beating, he asked Christ into his heart as his personal savior and begged for protection. The chaplin said that God tests the faith and commitment of his followers; when he prayed, Lincoln promised to never look at another little girl again, no matter how strong the urge. This was God's way of saying _Yeah? Let's see._

Sigh.

Right next door.

Maybe she didn't live there, maybe she was just visiting.

He hoped.

Putting her out of his mind, he went up the walk and climbed the steps; they creaked under his feet, and the summer wind slipped through a windchime with a feeble metallic tinkle. At the door, he took a deep, steadying breath and lifted his hand but did not knock. Ever since he did what he did, looking into the faces of his family had been impossible, and when he stood before them (or sat before them behind a pane of glass), he felt naked, exposed, as though they could see into his malignant soul, could peer into the heart of darkness he fought so many years to keep suppressed. He knew they were disappointed in him...knew his sisters looked at him differently, that he caused them so much grief and misery.

He wanted to see his mother, to feel safe and loved in her arms after so long, but he did not want to face her, did not want to see the hurt in her eyes that had been there every time he looked into them over the past fifteen years. If he could, he'd turn around and spare her anymore trouble, but he couldn't, so he knocked instead, his knuckles rapping the weathered wood.

The wait seemed to stretch into eternity, but couldn't have lasted more than a minute - the curtain covering the glass fluttered aside, and his mother's face filled the pane, her face wrinkled and her hair dull blonde streaked with gray. She was almost sixty-six, and the stress of the past two decades had taken its toll: She looked more like she was seventy-six, and her health had deteriorated to the point that she needed a cane to get around.

Seeing her sent a ripple through Lincoln's center that was part regret, part longing, part sadness, and part joy.

When their gazes locked, her faded eyes lit up and the corners of her mouth drew into a smile. She let the curtain go, unlocked the door, and opened it, her pink house dress flapping in a sudden gust of heated wind. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, Mom leaning against her cane and Lincoln with his thumb through the bag's shoulder strap.

"Hi, Mom," he said when the silence became unbearable.

She opened her mouth to speak, and her lips trembled; water filled her eyes, and she held out her arm. Lincoln went to her and hugged her tight, his own tears beginning to fall. He was finally home, and finally safe, the cold, white lights and concrete walls of North Pine State Prison a distant memory - one that would haunt him in his sleep for the rest of his life, but could no longer actually hurt him.

Mom turned her head and planted a fierce kiss on his wet cheek. "Hi, honey."

When the hug broke, she hobbled aside aside and gestured for him to enter. "Come in. You must be exhausted."

"A little," Lincoln said as he crossed the threshold for the first time in nearly two decades. Mom shut the door behind him and he looked around - a soap opera played on TV, and a lamp stood on a table next to her arm chair. Everything was the same as it had been in his childhood, and a flood of memories broke over him, sharp in his heart like the edge of a knife.

"Are you hungry?" Mom asked. "You're so thin."

It was easy to believe that the past fifteen years hadn't happened, and that at any moment, Lola and Lana would come in from the kitchen - fifteen and as identical as always, or that Lisa would descend the stairs, fourteen and already a senior in high school, All three of them were long gone, though, living their own lives in their own time zones, Lisa in California, Lana in Florida, and Lola in Philadelphia. The only ones who lived close were Lori and Leni, the former in Detroit and the latter in Chicago. The last time he spoke to Mom on the phone, she said she was going to try and get everyone to come home for a release party; he didn't know whether he wanted that or not, and he spent most of the ride down from the UP gstulating between one and the other.

"I'm okay," he said, even though he _was_ a little hungry.

"Come sit," she said and nodded to the couch, "how was the trip? When do you have to see your parole officer?"

Mom hobbled over to the armchair and sat with a strained grunt, and Lincoln perched on the the edge of the couch, his hands clasped between his knees. "It was okay," he said with a nod. That wasn't entirely true; after fifteen years of structured confinement, being thrust into the world, totally alone and in control of himself, was downright terrifying. And so was the paranoia - at any moment they could stop the bus and make him go back. He was theirs, after all, and had been for so long he could barely remember what it was like to be _his_. "I have to check in before five." He reflexively glanced at the clock on the mantle, but it wasn't there, and he frowned in confusion. He looked around, but it was nowhere. "What time is it?" he asked at length.

Mom picked up the remote, pushed a button, and a menu appeared on the TV. "2:45," she said. "Do you want me to drive you over?" she asked. "We can leave in a bit, I just need to take my pill and get dressed."

"No, it's fine," he said, not wanting her to exert herself, "I'll walk." He didn't want to - what if he saw more people he knew? What if pedestrians stopped to stare at him with hate and revulsion?

What if he came across more little girls?

That thought scared him shitless, and he _almost_ changed his mind, but Mom could barely walk, and the last time he talked to Leni on the phone a year ago, she said it was getting harder and harder for her to leave the house - she had her groceries delivered now and only went abroad when she absolutely had to.

He'd already caused her so much pain and heartache, the least he could do was walk down the fucking street. It was only two miles.

In the heart of town.

Gulp.

"You better go then," Mom worried, "better early than late."

He took a deep breath. She was right. "I'll just...put my bag away," he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I-Is that okay?"

Mom blinked in surprise. "Of course it is, honey," she said. "Your room's still set up; we haven't touched anything. I only go in there to dust and turn the sheets."

Lincoln got stiffly to his feet and stood. "Alright, I'll be right back."

She smiled at him and held her hand out; he took it and squeezed, a tight-lipped smile forming across her creased face. "I'm so happy you're home," she said.

"Me too, Mom," he replied and kissed the back of her hand; it was dry and wrinkled like old leather.

Taking his bag, he climbed the stairs, his steps slow and plodding. Mom had told him several times over the years that she kept his room just as he left it, and the thought of walking into it, like stepping into the past, sent sharp pangs through his stomach.

The hall looked exactly as it had before right down to the fake white roses in the blue vase on the end table. At his door, he paused and amped himself up for what was to come, for the memories; it would be like the last fifteen years hadn't happened. He would be twenty again, young and seemingly carefree, but filled with dark urges, black, bubbling impulses that had built for years and became, toward the end, uncontrollable - they kept him awake at night, pacing the floors and ranking his fingers through his hair; distracted him in class, which lead him to flunk a semester at RWCC; and followed wherever he went, like a hateful poltergeist bent on tormenting him until he snapped. Those days leading up to the...incident were not happy ones...and neither were the ones after...when he found himself wanting to do it again, to go farther this time, to go all the way.

He wasn't like that anymore - he went to therapy - and walking into his old room...into yesteryear was _not_ walking back into that life; that life was dead. This was a new one. He was a Phoenix rising from the ashes, and what lay before him was the future, not the past.

Reaching out, he took the knob in his hand, twisted it, and opened the door. What he saw was exactly what he expected, but it made his heart skip nevertheless.

His room was, as Mom said, just as he left it, except the bed was neatly made, the laundry hamper (overflowing the day he was arrested) was gone, and the floor was free of clutter and recently vacuumed. The same posters that had been on the wall since he was a kid stared back at him - Ace Savvy, hands on his hips and a toothy smile spread across his rugged face. Looking at it now, Lincoln detected a mocking inflection in the set of his muscles, the grin too wide, too phoney. _Welcome back, Linc. Gonna pick up where you left off?_

No.

He was _not_.

Standing there with his hand on the knob, he scanned the room as if in search of demons, but none were there - he left them at the prison, where they would stay. He took a deep breath, crossed to the bed, and sat the bag down. He unzipped it and rummaged through its contents, looking for and finally finding an envelope with his initials and prison number on it. He opened it with shaky hands and took out a stack of pictures, some dog-eared and faded with age, some newer, cleaner: His sisters, their children, their husbands, beaches and forests he'd never been to and birthday parties he didn't get to attend. Here, Luan with her son, Caleb, on her lap - he was three when Lincoln went to jail, now he was eighteen and going off to college in the fall; there, Luna and her daughter, Adrianna, sitting on the stoop of an apartment building out west, Luna with a cigarette in her hand and Anna, six, flashing a cheesy, gap-toothed smile for the camera. She was...twenty-one now? His sisters had all lived rich and meaningful lives...meanwhile he was locked in a cell, on pause while everything changed around him. Cars were different now, smaller, sleaker; the clothes people wore were strange; and everywhere he looked, he saw little signs that this world was not quite the one he had left - similar, like an image in a funhouse mirror, but not exactly the same.

He sat the pictures on the nightstand with careful reverence, turning the stack face down because if he spent too long looking at them, he would begin to dwell on all that he missed. Those snapshots, static images of happiness he could bask in but not hold, got him through many long nights...they also killed him slowly. Like alcohol.

Before leaving, he unpacked the rest of his things, putting his clothes in one empty drawer and his book on the nightstand: The cover was creased and torn and depicted a fanged phantom. STEPHEN KING was emblazoned across the top, and 'SALEM'S LOT along the bottom. There were a number of Stephen King novels in the prison library, various editions, and Lincoln noticed a trend: As King grew more famous, his name grew and the title shrank. He couldn't say he was a huge fan of his work, but he really liked ' _Salem's Lot_ \- the town in it reminded him of Royal Woods, and when he read it, he could imagine himself there and not lying on a thin, lumpy cot in AD-SEG, his rectum hurting and wounds healing on his face. Nope - he was walking through the sunny town square with the main characters, and if he tried just a _little_ harder, he could break away from them and go home. There was a year long period where he read it back to back to back to back; now he didn't think he could even look at it, but it was his book, and he was going to keep it regardless.

His eyes went to the window over the desk, and the urge to walk over and peer out came over him...to see if she was there.

That's when he turned around and left.

* * *

Lincoln's probation officer was a fat, stony-faced man named Jim Evans: He was bald in the middle save for a little tuft of graying hair directly above his forehead, and all during their meeting, Lincoln had to make a conscious effort to keep from staring at it. An island in the sea, he thought. Why not shave it?

The probation office was in the basement of the Royal County Courthouse - a uniformed policeman stood by the door, and when Lincoln entered, it was through a metal detector. The waiting room, off the main hall, was a tiny, cramped space with too white walls and uncomfortable metal chairs. The magazines were all old - Lincoln paged through a _People_ as he waited, gazing at pictures of celebrities he didn't recognize (and some he did...God, they were so much older now). Before going in, the receptionist handed him a plastic cup and directed him to the bathroom. He was expecting this: Drug and alcohol test, standard procedure. He'd rarely ever drank and never once touched drugs, not even pot, but everyone has to do it.

Next, he went into Evans's office: A potted plant stood on one side of the desk and a metal filing cabinet on the other; framed certificates dotted the walls, and the rank smell of the man's lunch hung heavy in the air. Evans, clad in a white dress shirt and red tie, a laminate card hanging between his man breasts, nodded curtly as Lincoln sat, the harsh fluorescent light reflection on the lenses of his glasses. "Mr. Loud," he greeted, his voce tight and dripping with distaste. Lincoln returned his nod, suddenly feeling _very_ ill at ease. Evans looked at him for a moment, his eyes hard, then glanced down at a sheaf of papers on the desk. "I have your contract here," he said, "I want you to look it over." He slid a form across the desk. "These are stipulations of your release, if you don't meet them, I will violate your ass in a heartbeat."

Lincoln blinked in surprise. Evans glowered at him as though he were a particularly repulsive bug, his lips puckered in a contemptuous sneer. In the fifteen years since his crime, Lincoln had grown accustomed to the expression on his PO's face. _You're a scumbag,_ it said, _fuck you._ The guards at North Pine looked at him that way, and the inmates too - anyone who knew what he'd done...what he _was_.

He reached out and took the paper, his eyes darting away from Evans'. "I understand." he said.

"Good," Evans spat.

The terms of his parole were simple. He was to continue living with his mother for the first year; be home no later than 6pm and to leave the house no earlier than 6am; meet with Evans every Thursday at 2; stay 1000 feet from schools, daycare centers, parks, playgrounds, and _places of business that primarily cater to children.._ He was expected to submit to random drug tests and to seek continued counselling. He was also to register at the police station as a level three sex offender within 24 hours.

At the bottom, he signed his name, then handed it back to Evans. "You understand the terms and conditions?" Evans asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah." His mouth was dry.

Evans sat the form in front of him, his eyes boring into Lincoln. "Now get out of my office."

From there, Lincoln walked through town square, his hands in his pockets and his head down. People in pastels and tennis shoes moved around him like the tide, their apathy strangely comforting. To them, he was no one, and being no one was good...it was safe. The best days in prison were days when everyone ignored him. Alone in his cell or in the cafeteria, he was happy, because alone, no one could hurt him. The stares, the dirty looks, even the insults ( _chomo, pedo, faggot_ ) no longer wounded him after a while, but fists, pipes, and kicks _never_ stopped hurting.

At the corner of Main and Pine, he pressed the pedwalk button and waited for traffic to stop. An old black man walking along the opposite side of the street slowed to look at him, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. Lincoln's heart clutched and he hurriedly looked down at his shoes. He was familiar, Lincoln thought; it was only later that he realized it was Harold McBride, his old friend Clyde's adopted father. He hadn't thought of Clyde in years - he was in college across the country when Lincoln was arrested, and unsurprisingly, he never heard from him again.

A mile from home, his feet and legs aching, Lincoln sat on a bench flanking Pottsdamn Avenue and facing the old dance hall, now an arcade. As a child, he spent many long, lazy afternoons there with Clyde, and eventually Ronnie Anne Santiago. As an adult, he went there for other reasons...until someone complained and they kicked him out.

Was he a thousand feet away?

Cold horror filled him when he realized he couldn't be - he wasn't a very good judge of distance, but there was no way he was more than eight hundred feet from the front door.

His heart began to pound and the back of his neck prickled as though a cop were standing over him. _Offending already, huh, Loud? Back to prison with you._ He jerked a nervous glance over his shoulder, but no one was there. He jumped to his feet and rushed off anyway.

Two blocks later, he passed Carl's Ice Cream; a line of people waited at the window while others sat at the stone picnic tables licking soft serve and eating frozen custard. His stomach clutched and he started to turn around, but stopped - it was an ice cream shop, it didn't cater specifically to children. He could walk by, right? He wasn't stopping, so it should be okay.

His eyes were drawn inexorably to the queue. A little girl about nine stood next to an older woman, twisting back and forth with impatient excitement, the wind fluttering the hem of her aquamarina dress around her knobby knees. Curly brown hair spilled over her shoulders in a hopeless tangle, and her skin was the most delicate shade of brown he had ever seen. He imagined her turning, her eyes big and doe-like, filled with childlike curiosity, adolescent inquisitiveness...and innocence. _Hi, mister,_ he could hear her say, staring shyly down at her feet. _Can you help me learn about my body?_

A harsh, humorless laugh burst from his throat, and a black man sitting on a bench with a strawberry cone in his hand glanced up, eyes narrowed. Lincoln swallowed and hurried past.

 _No, I can't, because that's wrong; go away, little girl. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone; I want to pick up the shattered remains of my life...stop tempting me. Just. Fucking. Stop._

It wasn't her, though.

It was _him_.

No, no it wasn't. It used to be but not now. Heh. He was fresh out of prison - he hadn't seen a woman in fifteen years save for the fat prison nurse. Of course he was going to be enticed to look, but he didn't feel anything.

Anything at all.

* * *

Dinner that night. Lincoln and his mother alone at the table, the overhead light casting muted white glow. Lincoln stared down at his plate and pushed a meatball with his fork. He'd been waiting fifteen years for mom's meatballs (that sounds off putting), but they weren't like he remembered: Before they were warm and good, but now they were spicy, greasy, and sat heavy in his stomach. You never realize how much goes into our food until you spend almost twenty years eating the blandest fare tax money can buy - everything out here made him sick: His first day out, he bought a Big Mac and five minutes after finishing it, he ran to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea. Prison was a terrible place, but he couldn't deny that he was _clean_ when he came out, his body purged of all the toxins of the outside world.

The silence was the worst part - save for the scraping of Mom's fork, the steady _tick tick tick_ of the clock on the wall, and the distant droning of the weatherman on TV, the house was absolutely still. When he shifted in his chair, it creaked, and the refrigerator hummed on and on and on, a low, neverending purr that rattled his teeth. In prison, it was never quiet, even at 3am; doors clanged, guards' footsteps echoed, men wept in their bunks or cried out at penetration, whether consensual or not, you could never tell. He took a bite and chewed, his lips and tongue tingling, his stomach rolling. _No more,_ it said, _I can't take anymore._ He sat his fork down and took a drink of milk.

"I talked to Lori earlier," Mom said, "she's going to try to come up this weekend." She cut a meatball into fourths and stabbed one with the tines. "Leni too. She's very busy, though. I swear I see less of her than I do Lynn and Luna." She chuckled wryly. Leni worked for a fashion designer in Chicago...as a secretary, not the position she wanted but the only one she could get. She was married for a time, but her husband was manipulative and cheated on her. Given Leni's...childlike disposition, it was inevitable that someone would take advantage of her; the world is a cold, cruel place.

He snorted sardonically. Hi, Kettle, I'm Pot.

That was different, though.

He didn't _mean_ to take advantage of anyone. He just...snapped. The urges kept building and building, and he buckled under pressure. Breaking like that isn't the same as something sustained and consistent over a long period of time. It isn't the same at all.

"I'd like to see them," he said. His voice sounded small and tinny in the big quiet, and a shiver raced down his spine. The last time he saw Lori and Leni in person was...God, eight years? He frowned thoughtfully. Had it really been _that_ long? No, it couldn't be. It was right before Christmas the year the prison spent three months on lockdown. He counted and no, it wasn't eight years.

It was nine.

Nine years since they sat behind a smudged pane of glass, Leni smiling nervously and Lori looking disinterested, nine years. Jesus, in a way it felt like only last month, and in others, like a century ago. Leni was...Leni; she tried to be as supportive as she could. Lori, on the other hand, didn't even speak to him for the first three years, and for a long time after that only rarely. It wasn't until after that last (and first) visit with Leni that she started to write him regularly. Lincoln always felt like she took it hardest of anyone in his family because of her daughter, Lora - she thought he would do something to her, or may already have.

He hadn't.

Luna was the same after he was first arrested, but she came around pretty quick. _It's a disease, bro,_ she told him, _you're sick...you're not evil._ He nodded in agreement even though he didn't know: _Was_ it a disease? Was it really?

Or was he just a monster?

"Leni wants to see you very much," Mom said. "She said _Tell Lincy I'll eventually be there or be circle._ " She laughed and Lincoln smiled. "Lori said she could probably make it, but she isn't one hundred percent sure; she's always on call at work, so things could change at the last minute"

Lori was an administrator at Grady Memorial Hospital, the largest medical complex in Detroit and home to both the Michigan Cancer Center and the Lower State Pediatric Center - he'd have to say 1000 feet from that one. She made good money and lived with her husband in a nice neighborhood. Their marriage was strained, though, and Mom once wrote that she thought he sometimes hit her. _She drinks too,_ Mom told him on the phone. _I can smell it on her._

Whether she drank or not (or if her husband hit her, which, God, Lincoln hoped he didn't), she did the best out of everyone financially except Lisa. Luan was next: She worked as a collection agent for the IRS. Lynn was a personal trainer at a gym, Lucy was a librarian in New York City (where she decided to stay after college), Lola owned a beauty salon that was always on the verge of bankruptcy, Lana worked as a groundskeeper for a place in Colorado called The Overlook Hotel, and Lily was still in school studying to become a graphic design artist - she wanted to one day work on children's animation.

Then there was Luna.

Luna wasn't a bad woman, she just had some tough breaks over the years, and made some admittedly awful decisions. She spent eleven years with Adrianna's father - who most certainly _was_ abusive - and when she finally left, she couldn't get on her feet. She never had any money and lived in friends' garages and basements, cramped studio apartments, motel rooms, and homeless shelters even now. Adrianna, Mom told him, blamed Luna for their life and rarely spoke to her, which killed Luna every single day. A part of Lincoln pitied her, but another part, a deep, reptilian pit of avarice in his brain, didn't...because she had a daughter, she had a life. What did _he_ have?

"I didn't get a chance to talk to the others," Mom said and took a drink, "I figured you could call them if you like. I'm sure they'd love to hear from you."

Lincoln nodded; he honestly didn't know if they would or not, but he _was_ planning on calling them anyway. "I'll probably do that tomorrow," he said. "I'm kind of tired."

That wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie either - it was closing in on seven o'clock and the only sleep he'd gotten in the past forty-eight hours was on the bus, his bag wedged between his head and the window and the urge to stare into the night, at freedom, strong in his stomach. "I kind of want to get an early start tomorrow," he added. "Looking for a job."

"You can…" she trailed off. "I was going to say you can take the car but you don't have a license."

"I need to do that too," he said. The county DMV was in Elk Park, ten miles north. "The buses still run up there, right?"

Mom thought for a moment. "I think so. I can drive you, Lincoln, it's not a problem."

She said that, but he'd seen the way she moved - slow, hunched, wincing in pain at every other step. "It's fine. I like being on my own." He flashed a sheepish smile. He did, but he also didn't. Schizophrenic, maybe, but it's how he felt. Being in charge of himself and his life after fifteen years was exciting, but it was terrifying too.

Mom favored him with soft scrutiny. "Are you sure? It's really no trouble, honey."

"It's okay," he said.

After dinner, he insisted on washing the dishes; Mom put up a half-hearted protest, but eventually went into the living room. Standing at the sink hurt her back and hip, she said in the past, so she was probably glad to have a break.

The surreality of such a simple domestic task made his head spin, and though he hadn't opened his mouth since Mom left, he felt like he was _lying_ , an imposter going through the motions of a strange and alien ritual that he did not fully understand.

When he was done, he went to go put the plates away, but when he opened the cabinet to the left of the sink, he was met with cups and mugs, which so confused him that his head spun even more. The plates had _always_ been on this side, and the cups on the other.

Right?

He tucked his chin against his chest and tried to remember; he was mortified when he realized that he couldn't. He _thought_ they were, but he wasn't sure. He closed the door and opened the flanking one.

Cans and boxes of food greeted him.

Now he was so lost and unsteady he had to hold onto the counter for support. He was _certain_ there had never been edibles in here - those all went into the pantry. Mom must have moved things around at some point.

But why?

Why was there food where the plates went?

"Mom?" he called, the word tasting strange and cumbersome on his lips.

"Yes?"

He swallowed; he started to speak, but couldn't believe he was asking this - he hadn't lived here in fifteen years, but he felt like he should _know._ "W-Where do the plates go?"

Bemused silence. Then: "Oh, they go over the microwave now." She laughed. "Luna moved things around the last time she stayed here and I haven't put them back yet."

As far as Lincoln could remember, the last time Mom mentioned Luna staying with her was two years ago - she lost her home (a trailer) again and had nowhere else to go.

Closing the cabinet door, he carried the plates across the kitchen and put them away, then went into the living room. Mom sat in her chair with her feet up and her head back; on TV, a contestant on _Wheel of Fortune_ spun the wheel and asked to buy a vowel. The only light came from the lamp on the end table; it painted the room in warm, muted tones. "I'm going to bed," he said.

Mom twisted around to look over her shoulder. "Alright, honey." She puckered her lips, and he leaned it, letting her kiss his cheek. The memory of prison rapists kissing the back of his neck came back in a rush, and the sensation of her lips touching his skin made his breath catch. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said.

In his cell - _room_ \- he sat on the edge of the bed, balled his hands between his knees…

...and cried.


	2. The Long Arm of the Law

**Nuuo: If your concern is that this story glorifies child molesters, don't worry, it doesn't.**

 **Guest (I've seen you do a lot of shit but I draw the line here): What exactly are you objecting to in regards to this story?**

 **Legend29: No, but it was partially inspired by another movie.**

 **Lentex: It's not necessarily my intention to make Lincoln sympathetic but to show that each and every "bad person" is a person and not a cardboard cut-out villain. People and circumstances are more complex than that. I do believe that pedophile is something that cannot be helped in the same way that homosexuality is; that's to say, pedophiles, like gays, are wired that way, whether through nature or, in some cases, nurture. As the non-offending pedophile guest pointed out, there is a distinction between a pedophile and a child molester. Not every pedophile offends, and not everyone who commits pedophilia is necessarily a pedophile.**

* * *

Lincoln was up before the dawn, sitting in his chair and watching through the window as the sky softened from black to purple and then finally to light orange as the sun rose over the rim of the earth, its first feeble rays reaching across the land like creeping vines. Birds sang from thick treetops and a light wind slipped through the boughs, green leaves dancing like pagans reveling in the return of their god. A squirrel darted across the lawn separating Mom's house from Mr. Grouse's, then up the gnarled trunk of a tree.

He blinked when he realized his mistake.

It wasn't Mr. Grouse's anymore, it was someone else's.

His mind went back to the girl he saw come out the previous afternoon, but he didn't let it linger. Did the parole people know about her? Should he have said something? If they found out, they might take him back to jail.

Panic clutched his chest, and he looked strickenly around the room as if for an answer. They _had_ to know about her - they talked to Mom and came out to the house before he was released, it would only make sense for them to ask about neighbors before letting a pedophile move in. She _couldn't_ live there.

Thank God.

He breathed a sigh of relief - not because she wouldn't be around to look at, but because he didn't have to go back to prison. He wasn't like that anymore; he went through therapy. _Pedophilia is a sexual disorder, Mr. Loud,_ the prison therapist told him, _you cannot stop it, you cannot change it, you cannot cure it - acting on it, however, is entirely up to you._

 _I know,_ he replied.

Which is why he wouldn't look...because looking lead to touching. No one knows how many pedophiles there are in the world - given the shame and social stigma surrounding their urges, why would they self-report? - but the consensus is there are more than one might think, and many of them do not offend. They live normal lives, marry, have children, but never act on their feelings. Lincoln looked at them the way most people looked at George Washington or Robert E. Lee: Stately, larger than life, not quite human. They were strong, and the ones who offended were weak.

 _He_ was weak.

Fifteen years ago, he gave in to his dark desires and he did something he regretted, something that sickened him, something that he hadn't thought too deeply about in over a decade _because he liked it._ His greatest fear was that he'd slip, he'd let his mind go there and stay, that he'd realize he _wasn't_ changed.

The same with looking. Looking lead to thinking, thinking to lusting, lusting to…

What time was it? He flicked his eyes to the clock on the nightstand. 6:45. He was allowed to leave now, but Mom wasn't up, and lurking through the house, alone and unsupervised, didn't sit well with him. He knew it was dumb, but he'd rather wait.

Outside, a second squirrel joined the first; they romped up and down the trunk like two children playing tag. Lincoln marveled at their freedom - they know not the trials and worries of man, they live on instinct. Mate, store nuts, that's it.

Humans, if you think about it, are all in prison, prisons of someone else's making, prisons of their own making: Bad marriages, dead end jobs, monotonous lives, pedophila, we're every one of us trapped in some way, shape, or form, even if we don't realize it. He couldn't decide which was better: To realize it, or not to realize it - that was the question (heh). Knowing, you could break out, but only sometimes; not knowing...what difference did it make? You don't know you're trapped so it doesn't affect you. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and just this once, they were right.

He thought back to the ignorance of his childhood, before the urges started; he saw himself, a normal happy-go-lucky middle class kid walking down the street...then he saw the future hurtling toward him like a bullet. _Duck!_ He cried at himself, a man yelling at the heroine of a horror movie not to go into the spooky death house. Past Lincoln didn't hear him - his eyes were closed, his lips smiling, his freckled face glowing with radiance.

Then the round took him in the back of the head, and he was different; no longer carefree, wracked with guilt and shame, hating himself, looking at children as young as four and wanting to do with them what he once wanted to do with Ronnie Anne.

The bullet metaphor wasn't an exaggeration; it happened just as suddenly as being taken out by a sniper. Up until he turned twelve, he was your average boy - he looked at girls his own age and older; he wanted to hold their hands and kiss them, and later, he wanted to do other things with them. Then, at some point that summer, it was like a switch had been thrown - he vividly remembered walking to the bathroom, looking into Lisa's room, and seeing her friend Darcy sitting on the floor coloring. Her dress was white satin against dark skin, and her eyes, when she looked up at him, were big, doe-like, and filled with something he couldn't name, something that stirred him in a way nothing had ever stirred him before. He stumbled away, dazed, and couldn't stop thinking about her even though he tried. God, he tried.

It was a fluke, he thought, only it wasn't.

And, over time, it got worse.

It was full light when he heard his mother going down the stairs. He got up, dressed in a pair of brown slacks and a green Izod polo shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his shoes on. He'd have to talk to Mom about borrowing some money for clothes - he only had three pairs of pants and three shirts, one pair of underwear, and two pairs of socks. He didn't want to ask Mom for a hand out, but he kind of had to.

Before he got up, he turned to the stuffed rabbit sitting on his pillow - his name was Bun-Bun and Lincoln had had him for as long as he could remember. He was a friend, a confidante, the first one Lincoln admitted his strange attractions to, and the only one, beside the prison therapist, to not judge him for them. A fond smile touched his lips, and he sighed in contentment. "You're always there for me," he said. Last night, after fifteen long years away, Lincoln found himself cuddling Bun-Bun like a child afraid of the dark. In a way, he _was_ afraid of the dark...only it was the dark within, and not without. "Do you...do you think I'm...I'm okay?" The last two words came around a sudden lump in his throat.

Bun-Bun stared back at him. _I don't know, Linc. It won't be easy; you have to be strong._

"I know," he sighed and darted his eyes to his hands; they shook in his lap, reminding him of an alcoholic going through DTs...jonesing for a drink...mouth dry, tongue thick, just one drink, that's all, just one...then maybe another...and a third. Before he knew it, he was blacked out in an alleyway covered in his own piss and vomit. "But I'm not strong." His voice, a broken whisper, trembled and he swallowed hard. "I don't know if I can do it."

He looked at Bun-Bun for help, but the rabbit seemed only to shrug. _Can't help you there, Linc._

No, he supposed, he couldn't; it fell squarely on him, Lincoln Andrew Loud. He was the master of himself, he was in charge, the responsibility was his and his alone.

Sighing, he got to his feet, cast one final look at Bun-Bun's face, then went downstairs, finding Mom at the coffeemaker; she wore a long pink robe and slippers, her graying hair matted and unbrushed. "Good morning, dear," she said when Lincoln sat. "How did you sleep?"

"Good," he said with a nod. He was so exhausted that he only laid awake fifteen minutes before dropping off; usually it was an hour or even two. "It was kind of strange behind in an actual bed," he added truthfully.

"I imagine," she said with a sad shake of her head, "it's awful how they treat people in those places. There's no reason for the beds to be so uncomfortable."

In prisons ( _those places,_ if you wanted to be polite), the beds are little more than paper thin cots on metal or concrete shelves. They were better than the literally slab of concrete he slept on in the Royal County Jail before and during his trial, but not by much. If anything, his mattress upstairs was too soft.

Maybe he'd buy a firmer one.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Mom asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, that would be great, thank you."

She poured two mugs, picked them up, and shuffled over to the table, setting one in front of him with a _clunk_ then sitting stiffly in the chair across from him, a shadow of pain flickering across her face. Before Lincoln could ask if she was okay, she smiled wanly. "Do you want something to eat? We're out of eggs, but there's cereal."

"I'm okay," he said and took a sip of his coffee. It was stronger and richer than the coffee in prison, and he grimaced. "I did need to ask...can I possibly borrow some money for clothes? I only -"

"Of course you can," Mom said and looked around. "Uh...my purse is upstairs. You can take what you need from it."

Lincoln blinked. "No, no, I don't need much -"

"It's fine," she assured him, "I need to go to the bank today anyway. And the grocery store. If you're back before I leave, maybe you can come with me and pick out some things you like."

"Okay," he said. He'd just get the purse and bring it to her. As for getting things he liked at the store...he honestly didn't know _what_ he liked anymore. Once upon a time, he loved cherry Pop-Tarts, but now, just thinking about how _sugary_ they were made him sick. Beyond that...he had no idea. Heh. Such a simple thing, a normal thing...and he was lost on it. He _did_ like Frito corn chips and Ramen noodles - together. In prison, you can buy snacks from the commissary, and guys came up with the strangest recipes - you could even make pizza by crushing up Ramen and crackers in a trash bag, adding water, and molding into a crust, with Vienna sausage and cheese spread acting as toppings. He didn't like that one very much.

"The Spread" was worse; a hodgepodge of everything one had on hand thrown into a trash bag and "cooked" with hot water, then served on a newspaper and eaten with a spoon. It varied from chef to chef, but every time Lincoln had seen it, the ingredients included canned tuna, Ramen, pickle relish, mayo, mustard, and Vienna sausage. It looked like diarrhea...and smelled like it too.

Before leaving, he went upstairs, grabbed Mom's purse, and brought it back down; she sat in her chair before _The Price Is Right_ and read a copy of _The National Enquirer_ \- she loved her tabloids and always have. She looked up at him and frowned when he held out the purse. "I didn't want to go through it," he said.

"It's fine, Lincoln," she said but took it anyway. "You act as though I'm one of those guards instead of your mother." There was a hint of exasperation in her voice that sent a ripple of dread through his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, "it just didn't seem right."

She rummaged through and pulled out her pocket book, then removed four twenty dollar bills. Lincoln's eyes widened and when she presented them to him, he held up his hand. He was already a child molesting loser living at home at thirty-five, he had to draw the line somewhere. "I don't need that much," he said. "Just enough to get a pair of pants or two and a couple shirts from the Dollar Store."

"Clothes are more expensive now, dear," she said, "plus, you'll need other things."

Lincoln's eyes went to the money, and hot shame crept up the back of his neck. He didn't like being a charity case, but she was right: He could list a dozen things he needed, and he'd probably think of more as the day went on.

Feeling two inches tall, he took the money and quickly shoved it into his pocket, out of sight, out of mind.

Outside, the morning was fresh and clean, the sunlight warm against Lincoln's skin and the dewy lawns up and down Franklin beginning to dry in the budding heat. A paperboy flew past on his bike and tossed a rolled up bundle at the house; it landed in the driveway and Lincoln brought it to his mother before setting off; she smiled and thanked him, and he felt a rush of pride. He liked being helpful.

From the driveway, he turned right and followed the sidewalk past a line of residential homes with big front yards that he once played in with neighbor kids, many of whom had since moved away. He…

A car pulled up beside and Lincoln's blood ran cold. He looked over just as the passenger side window slid down and a man with lank red hair bent over the wheel; he was dressed in tan khakis and a blue polo shirt; Lincoln's eyes went to his belt - he wore a gun on one side and a golden badge on the other.

He pulled his sunglasses down his nose and gaped at Lincoln the way a man might a mysterious piece of shit on his living room floor. Lincoln's bowels loosened and his knees started to shake. He couldn't place his face, but he knew him somehow.

When he spoke, Lincoln recognized him.

"So they _did_ let you out," Chandler said.

Over twenty years ago, Chandler Briggs was the most popular boy at Mary Walters Elementary: He was good looking, came from a wealthy family, and had the kind of personality that drew people to him like magnetism. Lincoln once looked up to him and wanted to be just like him, but came to the stark realization that he was petty, conceited, manipulative, and kind of a douche.

Now he was a cop.

His pale blue eyes bore into Lincoln, and Lincoln's stomach knotted. He tried to speak, but found that he couldn't. "You better keep your dick in your pants if you know what's good for you," Chandler said, then looked him up and down with a sneer, "fucking scumbag."

Whipping his head away, Chandler pushed his sunglasses back up and hit the gas, peeling away from the curb in a squeal of tires. Lincoln watched him go until the car was a metallic blip on the horizon, his entire body flushed and his heart pounding. He didn't like confrontation and never had - it scared him. It was worse now, though, because he was a grown pedophile and everyone was mad at him. Everywhere he went, they looked at him like a monster, and if he wasn't careful, they might hurt him like the other inmates in prison did.

Now he was scared.

Maybe he should turn around and go home. He could look for a job another day.

Instead, he forced himself on, his steps hurried and his shoulders hunched defensively, gaze downcast. Every so often he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him; each time he was sure he'd see Chadler pointing his gun at him, and the unfairness of being killed while doing nothing, totally innocent, disturbed him almost to the point of tears. He paid his debt to society, now he just wanted to live a normal, quiet life. What he did was in the past now - he was a different person then, a weaker person, a younger man not as in control of himself as he was now. They could hate that Lincoln all they wanted, he deserved it, but not him, not _this_ Lincoln.

He was three blocks from the center of town when he looked up and realized there was a park up ahead; the sweet laughter of children scented the air like perfume fragrance and his a pang cut through his stomach. Kids ran mindlessly after each other, played on the equipment, and tried to go higher than one another on the swing set. A steel band tightened around Lincoln's chest and his feet shuffled to a stop; he spotted a little girl, maybe ten, in jeans and a purple shirt chasing a boy about two years younger, her blue eyes sparkling and her pink lips arranged in a happy smile, her dirty blonde hair streaming behind her like warm silk. She was just beginning to develop, her hips slightly curved, her chest budding, breasts small...barely a handful.

In other words: Perfect.

Lincoln sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, spun, and power walked in the other direction, back toward home. The image of the girl followed, plaguing his mind like a vengeful spirit, and he didn't realize he was crossing the street until a car honked and he jumped with a cry of alarm. A black man sat behind the wheel, looking at him like he was stupid. He threw one hand up and said something that Lincoln couldn't hear but probably included a profanity. Blushing, Lincoln ducked his head and hurried to the other side - he'd walk to Sparrow and cut across to Main from there.

 _What does her hair feel like?_

He walked faster as if to outrun that horrible, horrible question.

 _What does it_ feel _like?_

Like hair, he spat to himself, like hair. He ran his fingers through his own snowy threads. There. It's no different.

 _Her small hand in yours, your thumb brushing her knuckles; the smell of her breath...her eyes as she looks shyly up._

"Fuck you," Lincoln said aloud, his voice a harsh croak: Whether he was talking to the girl, himself, or God, he didn't know.

Forcing the thought out of his mind, he turned right onto Sparrow and walked across the railroad tracks - town was ahead, low brick buildings flanking either side of Main Street and people traversing the tree lined sidewalks. Nerves wracked him when he came to the first business on the block, a diner adjoined with a barber shop. Alright, Linc, walk in there, smile, and ask for an application. Easy.

He paused by the door and looked through the front window: Stools sat before a lunch counter and booths marched along the back wall, tables and chairs filling the space in between, red and white checkered cloths, plank wood floor, wood paneled walls, a ceiling fan stirring air that couldn't be anything but hot and dry. A beefy man with graying hair and clad in a white T-shirt and apron stood behind the counter, chatting across it with a man in a green John Deere cap. A few others sat in some of the booths and at a few of the tables, and a woman in a pink waitress uniform patrolled the room with a coffee pot, stopping here and there to top off a thirsty diner. He counted eighteen people in there, eighteen sets of eyes watching him, seeing into his corrupt soul, smelling the sickness as he passed.

For the second time that morning, he almost turned around and fled, but he opened the door, took a deep breath, and went in, the clink of silverware against plates, the low din of chattering voices, and country music from a hidden radio rushing over him. The smell of eggs, bacon, and sausage found his nose, and his stomach rumbled.

He looked around the room, didn't see anyone he knew, and breathed a sigh of relief. He went to the cash register and waited patiently as the man in the apron finished his conversation, then came over. Up close, his hairy forearms were more muscular than Lincoln expected, and on one was a faded tattoo of the Marine Corps logo; his hair was gray and thinning, and his blue eyes were washed out. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"I was wondering if I could get a, uh, a job application," Lincoln said, his voice faltering under the man's intense scrutiny. He reminded Lincoln of a guard - tough, apathetic, cold.

The man regarded him for a moment, then tilted his head to one side. "I don't really do applications. I interview on the spot."

"Do you have any positions open?" Lincoln asked, his hope beginning to wane.

"I got a couple. You ever cook before?"

Lincoln nodded. "In prison."

That slipped out before he knew he was speaking, and his heart clutched.

The man didn't seem fazed. "Alright. What were you in for?"

Right then and there, Lincoln realized in a flash that he wasn't going to get this job. "Uh...a-a sex crime."

The man's face remained stoic and unchanged as he shook his head. "Sorry, can't help you."

With that, he turned away from Lincoln.

Like he was nothing.

Head hung, Lincoln left the restaurant, face burning with shame; even though he knew they weren't, he couldn't help feeling that everyone there was watching as he went back through the door, their gazes mocking and cruel. Stinging tears filled his eyes and humiliation settled over him like a shroud.

It wasn't fair. He was trying to do right and _oh, no, we can't help you, you're a dirty, nasty sex offender. Now beat it._ How do they expect people to get back on their feet and not commit crimes if they act like that?

Now he was mad. Taking a deep breath, he started down the street. It was one place, there were more in town - he'd find something. He had to.

He didn't.

Before noon, he stopped at a half dozen shops, restaurants, and stores, and each time he revealed he was a sex offender, the warmth ran out of whomever he was speaking too, and their eyes filled with suspicion, revulsion, or hate - sometimes all three. The little old lady who owned _Trinkets and Treasures_ on the corner of Main and Sixth was as friendly and nice as any grandmother Lincoln had ever seen, then turned cold when he told her what he was. _Oh. I'll be in touch._

He didn't even give her his number.

By the time he reached Flip's, he was thirsty, covered in sweat from the heat, and so downtrodden he felt like a sidewalk. Inside, he went straight to the cooler along the back, eyes pointed at his feet, and grabbed a Coke. Still looking at the ground, he scurried to the register, sat the bottle down, and glanced up.

His heart stopped.

Ronnie Anne Santiago stood behind the counter, her eyes wide with horror. Their gazes locked, and for a horrible second the world came to a crashing halt.

A pretty Hispanic girl with dark eyes and black hair, Ronnie Anne was his on again off again girlfriend through high school; they would date for a few weeks, then go back to being _just friends,_ then date again. When they were sixteen, they lost their virginities to each other, and when he...did what he did, they were on rather than off, and after his arrest, he got a letter from her.

She broke up with him, called him a pervert, and ended it with _rot in jail, asshole._

Lincoln didn't know if he loved her or not - that period of his life was so strange and confusing - but he did like her, and he enjoyed being with her, whether they were holding hands and staring into each other's eyes or just being together. He knew how deeply what he did must have hurt her, and he didn't blame her for being angry at him.

He just hoped to God he would never have to face her again.

Yet here he was, heart slamming, stomach twisting, knees trembling, holding onto the edge of the counter for support. She wasn't much better off...unless she was always pale now.

She flicked her eyes away from his and to the Coke. "Hey, Linc," she said, her tone halting and unsteady.

"Hey," he said, surprised that he didn't stutter.

"I-I see you're out," she said and turned to the register.

"Yeah," he said, "I got home yesterday."

She punched in a few numbers on the register's keyboard. "That's good," she said, her inflection cursory and halfhearted. "You look good."

"Thank you. You too."

"1.75."

Lincoln handed her a five dollar bill and she made change; maybe he was imagining things, but she handled the money as though it were dirty. When she gave him the difference, she went out of her way to make sure their palms didn't touch. "Thanks," he said, shoving the money into his pocket and grabbing the soda.

She didn't speak as he hurried to the door, trying hard to not look like he was fleeing but failing. Outside, he walked away as fast as he could.

He'd get clothes tomorrow, he decided. Right now, he needed home.

And Bun-Bun.

* * *

Detective Chandler Briggs parked his white Crown Vic along the side of the Royal Woods Police Department building, killed the engine, and got out. Thirty-seven and in better shape than men a quarter his age, Briggs was the youngest detective on the force; he started as a patrolman when he was twenty and worked long, hard hours to one day be like the detectives he admired, the men who actually went out and _solved_ crimes. A beat cop doesn't do that, they keep order, which is an important job, but not as satisfying as actually gathering evidence and putting scumbags in jail.

Scumbags like Lincoln Loud.

He slammed the door and looked across the roof at his partner, Deke Jones. A thin black man with a bald head that glinted in the harsh August sun, Jones wore a brown suit, white undershirt, and a red tie, his coat hiding his gun on one side and his badge on the other. A lot of guys called him Mr. Cool because he insisted on wearing a nice suit every single day, no matter how hot it got. And you know the best part? He didn't perspire. He could chase a perp two miles in pounding 100 degree heat, jump a fence, and scuffle with him...and nothing, Briggs decided long ago that Jones didn't even _have_ sweat glands.

Jones lifted a quizzical brow and pursed his lips, and Briggs almost chafed. "I'm fine," he said tightly.

"I didn't say anything," Jones said and lifted a hand, palm out. The corners of his lips turned up in a near imperceptible smile. _Clearly something's bugging you,_ it said, _but you're too stubborn to say, so you're fronting and failing._

"You thought it," Briggs said and pointed at the black man, forcing himself to smile. _Look, I'm cool; hahahahaha, wouldn't be doing this interplay shit if I wasn't_.

Jones shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't think anything. Except I'm hungry."

They were walking across the parking lot toward the side entrance now, Jones' stride easy and sure, Brigg's uneven, hands on his hips and his head bowed. He _knew_ the son of a bitch was coming back - the state prison notified the station a week ago - but seeing him walking down the street, free and easy like he _didn't_ molest a ten-year-old girl, like he _didn't_ fuck her up so bad she was probably still in therapy, like he didn't shatter a child's fucking innocence...

Every time he thought about it, rage filled his chest and he wanted to hit something...preferably that white haired slime ball.

Briggs considered himself a good cop and a good citizen - he did his job, paid his taxes, and didn't bother anyone unless they bothered him first. He believed in second chances - he'd seen dozens of former bad guys come out of jail and walk a narrow path. A lot reoffended and went back in, but a lot didn't, as a cop he knew that better than anyone.

He also knew this: Eventually, Lincoln Loud was going to do it again.

You can change a mobster, you can change a drug dealer, you can even change a hitman, but you can't change a pervert - they're like an apple rotten to its core, the blackness within so deeply ingrained in who they are that you'd have more luck emptying the ocean with a kid's plastic bucket than changing them. Sex killers, rapists, child molesters - all of them were beyond help, and if the government had a brain or a backbone, they'd do society a favor and execute them.

"...so I said, fine, if that's how you wanna be, _you_ sleep on the couch," Jones was saying. He laughed and shook his head. Briggs didn't catch what he was talking about, but it was probably his wife, Jeanette; they were madly in love with one another after six years of marriage...and fought like cats and dogs. They enjoyed it - Jones called it _marital sparring_. Briggs called it _drama._ He and his own wife, Jordan, _never_ argued: They both valued peace and harmony at home. Home, they believed, should be a refuge, a place to escape strife and discord, not a source of it.

Reaching for the door, Briggs pulled it open, cold air washing over him and drying the sweat on his brow like a flash fire causes blisters. "Did it work?" he asked.

"No," Jones snorted, " _I_ slept on the couch."

A long, marble floored hall ran the entire length of the building, terminating at lobby; a man in a gray suit chatted with the desk sergeant, and a couple uniforms walked toward the dayroom, one laughing and the other looking annoyed. Briggs remembered being a patrolman; he hated it. He was destined for bigger and better things, being a mere street cop was just the first, regrettable, step. He wondered if those two buffoons were working their way up like he did, or if they were content to be stooges forever.

"That thing have frequent flier miles?" he asked as he and Jones went into the squad room, a giant space crammed with desks, ringing phones, and detectives.

Jones nodded. "One more stay and I get the next one free."

At their joint desk, which commanded a scenic view of the parking lot, Briggs sat, leaned back, and laced his hands behind his head. Jones sat across from him, grabbed a file, and opened it. "You think she's lying?" he asked, changing topics so quickly it would given anyone but Briggs whiplash - a partnership is like a marriage, and in a marriage, you learn your spouse's quirks real quick.

Briggs considered for a moment. They were working a routine case, looking for a crack dealer named Anthony "Little Tony" Smalls. A Blood with a list of priors that stretched from here to Timbuktu, Smalls was wanted for skipping bail in Detroit on an attempted murder charge. His mother and older sister lived in a housing development on the south side of town, and the DPD wanted them to stop by and see if he was there. His mother said he wasn't, and let them come inside for a search. _I haven't seen him in months,_ she said and crossed her arms in indignation. _He don't even call me_. He'd seen mad mothers before - as a teen, he saw it from his own mom more often than he'd admit - and Mrs. Smalls was mad at her son. "Nah," he said, "she's telling the truth."

Jones nodded. "Yeah, I think so too." He sighed and sat back in slumped posture of defeat, his chair creaking under his weight. He slapped the file on the desk and looked at Briggs. "Wanna order a pizza?"

Later, at the end of the day, Briggs drove through the streets of Royal Woods, the amber late afternoon light painting the town blood red. He realized he was paying more attention to the sidewalks instead of the road ahead, and forced himself to look away.

He didn't know if he was hoping to see Lincoln Loud, or hoping _not_ to see him.

When Lincoln raped the Meyers girl, Briggs was a uniform - he didn't work the case, but he knew guys who did, and while he considered himself a steely son of a bitch, hearing them talk about how traumatized she was, bloody, shaking, sobbing into her hands left him literally sick to his stomach. How could someone do that to a _child?_

Evil, that's how. Lincoln Loud and people like him were evil, and if Chandler Briggs had his way, they'd be stood up against a stone wall and shot.

He didn't realize he was turning off of Main Street until his hands spun the wheel, and he knew in an instant where he was going.

Five minutes later, he slowed and pulled onto Franklin Avenue, his eyes going to the Loud house: It sat on a slight rise to the left, a big, leafy oak tree dominating the front lawn and a tan Intrepid sitting in the oil-stained driveway. He craned his neck as he crept past, looking for signs of anything amiss but finding nothing. He could _feel_ the malignancy, though, like electricity in the air - it poured off of Loud in choking waves and set his teeth on edge.

Someone oughta go in there and kill the bastard.

Seething now, he turned away and pressed the gas, his hands tight on the wheel. He didn't want this son of a bitch in this town...didn't want to have to deal with the _next_ little girl he hurt.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into his driveway and cut the engine; his house was like every other on the block - big, white, and normal, its shutters green and its tiny front lawn well-manicured. He got out and went inside, his dark mood lifting when he heard his favorite sound in the world.

"Daddy!"

Charlotte, six last month, streaked into the room in a flutter of blonde pigtails and white dress. A big, goofy smile crossed Briggs' face and he knelt, the little girl flying into his arms and almost knocking him down. "Whoa," he laughed, "you're gonna break me if you aren't careful."

"No, I'm not," she piped, "you're too big and strong to break."

He chuckled...then frowned when an image of Lincoln Loud flickered across his mind.

"No, I'm not," he said and held her tight, and it was true.

He wasn't strong...he was scared.


	3. Prey and Predators

**Filias: Yes. One.**

 **Skydrove24: Because I decided I wanted to write a (hopefully) dramatic and thoughtful story and chose to use Lincoln, whom my readers are already inclined to like, sympathize with, or at least totally not hate. Most of the sisters have their own lives, as previously stated, and will not be appearing. They don't have to be in everything. This is a fan fiction using The Loud House as a jumping off point, not an episode of the show.**

 **Lyrics to** _ **I Think We're Alone Now**_ **by Tiffany (1987)**

* * *

" _PEDO!"_

That single word rang through Lincoln's head like a funeral bell, reverberating through his bones and deep into his stomach. For most of the night, he lay awake and staring into the darkness, Bun-Bun clutched to his chest and his eyes pooling with tears. He and Mom were sitting in the living room after dinner when it happened - a hateful shout and a startling thump as something struck the side of the house. A rock - Mom found it on the porch; Lincoln was too scared to go outside himself.

Since then, he'd been in a constant state of terror, expecting the front door or one of the windows to explode open, admitting an angry mob with pitchforks and torches like in an old Universal monster movie.

Before dawn, he fell into a thin, fitful sleep haunted by nightmares of fire and crucifixion; angry faces stared from the shadows...he couldn't see them, but he knew they were there, judging, hating, and waiting to strike. When he woke just past eight, it was with a scream locked in his throat and cold sweat standing on his forehead. Soft, white light fell through the window, and the comforting hiss of rain found his ears, soothing and safe, reminding him, for some reason, of November days as a boy, he and his sisters trapped inside and huddled together in the living room, each one busy at their own, self-contained task but doing them _together_.

Loss, as sudden as a shot in the dark, clutched his chest, and for a moment he simply stared into the gloom, shadows darting across the ceiling like phantoms of memories past. A melancholy smile spread across his lips as he recalled those rainy afternoons, him in his undies reading an Ace Savvy comic, Luna dancing with her radio, Lynn swatting balled up pairs of socks around like a hacky sack or a hockey puck, Lucy reading one of her horror novels. That was before the urges, before he started to feel things he couldn't explain, things that both scared and excited him. He was...what...thirteen when he finally realized what he was? Maybe it was fourteen. He was standing outside a changing room at a store in the mall, Leni occasionally popping out to model outfits, when he spotted two girls at a clothing rack, their backs to him. One was sixteen or seventeen and blonde, her curvaceous body clad in tight denim cut-offs and a tiny tank top that stopped above her waistline, revealing her fleshy hips, the small of her back, and the dimples at the base of her spine. She was the kind of girl Clyde and his other friends would go crazy for.

The other, her sister perhaps, was seven, maybe eight, in jeans and a black T-shirt, her own blonde hair fanned out over her shoulders and her hands slipped into her back pockets. Lincoln's eyes were drawn inexorably to her, tracing the lines of her shapeless form, the flat plain of her butt. When she turned, his breath caught at her beauty: Sparkling blue eyes, pert, upturned nose, missing front teeth. He felt himself stir, and, horrified, he clamped his hands between his legs, bending slightly so no one would see. He tried to look away, but he was captivated - he could see him going over to her, brushing his fingers through her hair, kissing her deeply, prodding the spot where her baby teeth used to be with the tip of his tongue.

 _I'm a pedophile._

He didn't mean it seriously at the time, or at least he didn't remember meaning it seriously, but sometime later, he thought back to it, and he knew deep in his stomach that it was true. He really _was_ a pedophile.

That revelation came like a WWF bodyslam - the air rushed out of his lungs and his entire system locked up.

A pedo.

The lowest form of human life. The most hideous, disgusting, hateful, _pathetic_ creature to slither out of the primordial goo. From the way people talked about them, his own mother included, there was nothing, _nothing_ worse.

Almost immediately, denial set in. He couldn't be, not him, he was a normal guy, not...one of _those_. There was really nothing wrong with him looking at little girls, was there? He was a kid himself. If he was older, yeah, but not right now. It might be a little...strange...but it didn't make him an actual pedophile. If he felt the same way in five years, then it would be a problem.

Every day, however, he found himself looking at little girls, and the same thought - _pedo, pedo_ \- would echo through the chambers of his skull. No, he'd answer, I'm not, I just...I like little girls.

 _Spoken like a true pedo._

Later, it fully sank in.

He _was_ a pedophile. Shame, rage, and guilt tore through him; it wasn't fair, he didn't _want_ to be disgusting, he wanted to be normal. Depression soon followed, and he fell into a deep pit of despair. When he was sixteen, he tried to kill himself - he cut his wrists with a razor and went to sleep in his bed, a suicide note resting on his chest.

Six hours later, he woke dazed but alive; his blood clotted and he didn't bleed out the way he was supposed to...the way he _should_ have.

His resolve crumbled; he balled the letter up, threw it in the trash, and went about his day like nothing had happened, a long sleeve shirt hiding the wounds. He smiled, helped Lola with her homework, played football with Lynn, and listened to one of Lucy's poems...all the while, he was contemplating the next attempt.

A week later, on his way to school, he took a detour, and wound up on the Route 25 bridge, traffic flowing along I-75 below like a rushing river below. He didn't know if the fall would be enough to kill him (unless he landed on his head), but there was no way he could avoid being run over once he landed.

Setting his backpack aside, he climbed onto the bottom railing and looked down, his heart blasting. He could do this. He just needed to lean over and let himself drop.

But he couldn't.

When he stepped down, he was shaking and dizzy, his stomach twisting back and forth and threatening to spill its contents. He grabbed his bag and trudged home, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He was too weak to kill himself, but he couldn't live like this, hating himself, despising what he was and crying himself to sleep at night because he couldn't change. He tried, oh God, did he ever - he forced himself to look at older girls, trying and failing to feel the same things their little sisters woke in him. He stole a _Playboy_ from Flip's and spent hours alone in his room, slowly paging through it, staring at the most beautiful women in the world and feeling nothing. More often than not, he wound up reading the articles...and enjoying them. Nothing he did worked, though - he liked little girls and that was it.

There _was_ Ronnie Anne, but when he made out with her, he pretended she was a shy little Mexiloli with big eyes and missing teeth. The first time she touched him between his legs, he had to _really_ focus on the image of her as a little girl to stay hard. For some reason, even though he'd masturbated to thoughts of little girls before, that first orgasm with Ronnie Anne was the most shameful of his life.

The more the urges grew and the deeper into their relationship they got, he realized why: It was a lie, all of it. He liked her, but he didn't want her. Every kiss was an untruth, every encounter insincere. He liked Ronnie Anne - she deserved better than that, than a boyfriend who wanted to be somewhere else when he was kissing her, wanted her to be someone else. This only added to his depression...and still, the urges grew, darker, sharper, more insistent. By the time he was eighteen, he could barely leave the house because he didn't trust himself - the thought of grabbing a little girl and carrying her away, of letting her intoxicating scent fill his nose and her taste linger in his mouth, came more and more frequently until he almost did it. The first was a little black girl at the dance hall; he spent most of a Saturday afternoon leaning against the wall and watching her, waiting for her to be alone but never getting quite brave enough to snatch her when the opportunity presented itself.

When it occurred to him what he was doing, what he was thinking, he hung his head and left. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, his hands shook, his heart slammed, he was going crazy and here was proof - trying to fucking _abduct_ a little girl.

On the way home, he almost jumped into the path of an oncoming bus, but even at the end of his rope, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Pathetic.

He was pathetic.

And now, nearly twenty years later, it occurred to him that he still was. Worse than pathetic, because at least that long ago Lincoln Loud had never touched a child. This one had, and deep down, God help him, he wanted to do it again.

He held Bun-Bun closer as though the rabbit could ward away the monsters within the way he once warded off the monsters without. _Don't let me do it again._ In his mind, his voice was shaky, desperate, and child-like, a raw, beseeching plea.

 _Only you can do that, Linc,_ Bun-Bun said. His tone was measured, a guidance counselor offering simple advice to a wayward student.

 _I don't know if I can,_ Lincoln inwardly moaned.

 _You have to. Unless you want to go back to prison._

His blood turned to ice water, and a shudder went through him like a ripple across the still surface of a pond. He didn't want to go back to prison; before they put him in administrative segregation, other inmates would beat him up and...do things to him, things that made him break down and cry if he thought about them, things he was afraid other people would do if they found out what he was. He'd rather die than go back...literally; if the cops were after him, he really _would_ jump in front of a bus. He could see himself crying and wincing as it hurtled toward him, but he did not see himself moving out of the way. It would hurt, he imagined, but not as much as prison.

Nothing hurt that much.

Setting Bun-Bun aside, he got out of bed and went to the bathroom, then downstairs. Mom sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her and one of her tabloids open on the table. "Good morning, dear," she said cheerily. After what happened last night, she acted extra happy, and Lincoln figured she was trying to allay his fears. _Look, sweetie, I'm not afraid and you shouldn't be either._ She always did that when something was bothering her. Once upon a time it was money troubles - when she smiled and acted extra upbeat, you knew things were bad.

"Morning," he said and went to the coffee pot. He grabbed a mug and poured some in.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

Lincoln sat across from her and sighed. He didn't want her to know how weak he was and worry. "Good," he said, "I'm getting used to the bed." He chuckled humorlessly and took a sip.

She nodded. "It takes getting used to." She lifted her mug to her lips and watched him over the rim. "Are you doing anything today?"

"DMV," he said.

Mom nodded. "I'll drive you."

He started to protest but she held up a hand. "It's raining, Lincoln, and I still need to go to the grocery store."

After yesterday, he couldn't say he was as against the idea of her giving him a ride. "Okay," he said. "When do you want to leave?"

"In an hour or so," she said, "I have to take a shower and get dressed. Can you get the paper, please?"

Lincoln nodded. "Sure." He got up, crossed through the living room, and stepped onto the porch, his eyes going to the rainswept driveway. The paper, wrapped in clear orange plastic, lay next to the rear passenger tire of Mom's car, rivers sluicing around it on either side. Ducking his head against the deluge, he darted out, grabbed it, and ran back to the porch. On the top step, he looked up...and froze.

CHILD MOLESTER was sprawled across the front door in damning red letters, dripping like blood. Lincoln's heart sputtered in his chest and the paper dropped from his hand, landing on the porch with a soft clunk.

Five minutes later, his mother stood next to him, her hands on her hips and her face pinched in bitter rage. "Bastards," she spat and took a deep breath through flaring nostrils. "Bastards." She stalked into the house, and Lincoln followed, legitimately scared of what she was going to do. In the kitchen, she snatched the phone off the wall, dialed, and held the handset to her ear; her brows were knitted, her lips tight, and her eyes hard, reminding Lincoln for some reason of coal.

"Mom," he said, his voice a shameful whisper - look what grief he was causing her on top of everything else. "It's not a big deal, I'll clean it…"

He trailed off when she spoke. "Yes, my name's Rita Loud and I live at 1216 Franklin Avenue. I'd like to report a crime."

Of all the things she could have done, calling the cops was the worst.

"Someone vandalized my house," she said tightly, "they spray painted...something on my door." She listened for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you." She hung the phone up and brushed past Lincoln.

The cops.

Were coming.

Here.

Lincoln's knees went weak and his heart blasted against his chest. He didn't want the cops; they might find a reason to take him back to prison; by this time next week he'd be in the infirmary again, his head bandaged and his rectum sewn with stitches. Panic clutched him in an icy grip and he slapped his hand against the wall for support. They wouldn't take him to jail, he hadn't done anything. He knew this, but that didn't stop the shakes or the breathless fear from coming, nor did it settle his queasy stomach.

When he trusted himself to walk, he went into the living room, where Mom stood in the middle of the living room and glared at the TV screen with crossed arms. "Why are people such monsters?" she asked herself. "You're a good boy and you're trying to do right - why do they have to bring up the past?"

Her voice was low, wavering, breaking his heart. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said, "I-I'm sorry I keep hurting you."

She turned to him, her features softening. "Lincoln," she said, "you're…" She stopped when she saw the tears in his eyes. "Oh, honey," she said and held out her arms. Hanging his head, he went to her, and she held him tight, stroking the back of his head and whispering words of love and faith. He was a grown man, and grown men don't cower in their mother's bosom, but her embrace was warm, and in it, he felt safe, as though nothing, not even the urges stirring in the pit of his stomach, could hurt him.

They were still clinging to each other when someone knocked on the door. Mom pulled away, smoothed out the front of her robe, and sighed. "Let's see if they actually do something." She went to the door and opened it; two uniformed police officers in peaked caps and black jackets stood side-by-side on the porch.

"Mornin', ma'am," one said, his face stony and totally void of emotion. "What seems to be the problem?"

Lincoln's palms began to sweat.

"Good morning," Mom said, "the problem is that... _trash_...on my door." She stepped outside, and Lincoln followed, staying close to her side so she could protect him.

The second cop pulled the door closed and they all looked at the graffiti.

CHILD MOLESTER.

Lincoln's face burned with shame and he looked down at his shoes. "Do you have any idea who did it?" the first cop asked.

"No," Mom said, "my son found it this morning. Someone screamed and threw a rock at the house last night, but...that...wasn't here when I came outside."

The second cop furrowed his brows. "What did they scream?"

Mom opened her mouth but hesitated. "Pedo," she said, passing the word like a kidney stone, and hearing that from his beloved mother's lips was like a punch in Lincoln's guts. The cops exchanged an inscrutable glance.

"Did you hear or see anything else?" the first asked Mom. "Anyone creeping around, strange noises, anything like that?"

Mom shook her head. "No."

Next, the cop looked at Lincoln, and Lincoln's stomach turned. He was suddenly conscious of everything - his breathing, his posture, his nervousness. Did he look guilty? Did they think _he_ did it? Did they think he did something else? They probably did - he was cold and shaking and visibly scared. They were probably going to take him to jail just in case - if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's gotta be a duck, so why not head off any unpleasantness and put him in a cell? They could find out what he did later - their main priority was protecting the children.

When the cop spoke again, Lincoln jumped. "Sir?"

"No," Lincoln said with a vehement shake of the head. "I-I didn't hear anything."

The cop nodded. "What time did you go to bed?"

"A-About nine."

He looked at Mom. "It was ten when I went upstairs," she said, "then I was up until midnight reading."

The cops both looked at the graffiti again, then at each other. Was Lincoln imagining it, or did a flicker of apathy pass between them? "There's not much we can do at this point, ma'am. We really don't have much to go, which happens a lot in cases like these. Kids egg houses and soap windows all the time and -"

"This wasn't kids," Mom said.

" - and no one knows anything," the cop finished, ignoring her. "We can take a statement and keep our eyes open, but that's about all."

Mom sighed in frustration.

"Ma'am," the second said, his tone softer and more friendly than the first's (were they playing good cop, bad cop?), "the best thing you can do is set up a camera, that way if someone does it again, we have something we can use."

Mom's eyes narrowed. "I have to wait for my home to be attacked _again?_ "

"Ma'am, this is routine -"

"It's hate speech," Mom snarled and jabbed her finger at the door. "I wouldn't be bothered if it was FUCK YOU, but it's...that. My son's a good boy. He made mistakes but he's trying to get back on the right path."

Lincoln's cheeks blazed with embarrassment.

The second cop nodded. "I understand your feelings." He looked at Lincoln. "And I commend you for trying to turn your life around. The fact of the matter is, though, there are people out there who...will do this sort of thing. We're not trying to give you the runaround, we really aren't, there's just nothing concrete we can do with nothing to go on."

Mom sighed in acquiescence. "Fine," she said.

"Get a camera system and if it happens again, call us back."

"I will," she vowed.

After the cops left, Mom looked at the graffitti and shook her head. "I'll get some soap and water," Lincoln said.

* * *

Chandler Briggs rose early Thursday morning and silently dressed in the gloom slipping through the blinds. Jordan lay curled under the covers, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face pointed away from him. She stirred and muttered in her sleep when he opened the dresser and it squeaked in its metal tracks, but fell still once more.

Pulling on a light pink polo shirt, he tucked it into his tan slack, grabbed his shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed.

This was an almost-every-morning ritual - get up, tiptoe around, try to get ready without waking her - and by this point, he had it down to a science. It helped that she had sleeping through his nose down to a science too. He smiled fondly as he yanked black dress socks over his feet; he knew full well that he wasn't the easiest person in the world to deal with, yet she put up with all of his quirks, flaws, and annoying habits with love, patience, and determination. He was lucky to have her, and sometimes, like right now, that realization came upon him like a ton of warm, fluffy pillows, and he had to stay himself lest he pull her into his arms, kiss her awake, and tell her he loved her. She wouldn't mind _too_ much, but as a mother and elementary school gym teacher constantly on the move from morning to night, she valued her sleep, and if she didn't get enough...watch out.

Tying his shoes, he got up, grabbed his badge from the nightstand, and clipped it onto his belt, then walked to the closet, opened the door, and took a metal box with a handle from the top shelf. He carried it to the dresser and sat it down, then produced a set of keys from his pocket. He inserted the correct one into the lock, turned it, and lifted the lid. Inside was his sidearm, a Glock G34 Gen 5 MOS with an extended clip. He had to fight the department to let him carry it - he knew this gun front to back and side to side; it'd be a cold day in hell before he used anything else.

Not that many opportunities for a cop to fire his weapon popped up in Royal Woods. In his near two decades on the force, he'd only drawn his piece three times, and shot it zero. He used to keep it on the nightstand in case someone broke in during the night, but as soon as Charlotte was old enough to toddle, he started putting it out of reach….then into a locked case because so many kids get a hold of their parents' guns and kill themselves, and he'd be damned if there'd be even a one percent chance his little princess would be one of them. He picked it up, jammed the clip into the grip and tucked it into the empty holster on the opposite side of his badge. He returned the lockbox to the closet, grabbed a brown Members Only jacket, and shrugged into it.

Done, he went around to Jordan's side of the bed, knelt down, and took a moment to admire her beauty before laying his palm gently on her forehead and brushing his thumb across her brow. She winced, and her eyes fluttered sleepily open. Confusion filled her eyes, then she smiled when she saw him. "Hey," she muttered.

"Hey," he said, "I'm leaving now."

Her eyes were already closed again. "Okay," she said and pursed her lips, which lent her the appearance of a duck - a beautiful duck, but a duck nonetheless. He leaned in, kissed her, and ran his fingers through her warm blonde hair. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she said. "Have a good day. And come home."

She said the same thing every time he went to work - the chances of him not coming back were slim, but they were there: He could be shot, stabbed, run over, blown up, or any number of things. Detective work is dangerous, even if not as dangerous as they make it out to be on TV. Like any cop's wife, she worried herself sick; every call, every knock at the door was The One, the dreaded news that her husband and the father of her daughter was never coming back.

"I will," he said, and kissed her forehead, "I promise."

In the hall, he pulled the door closed and went toward the head of the stairs, but instead of turning left and going down, he went right and into his daughter's room. Her bed was against one pink wall, and it was hard to pick her out under the fluffy pink comforter; she lay on her back, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, her blonde hair fanned around her head like a halo. He stood over her for a moment, fierce affection swelling in his chest, then he stroked his fingers across her forehead. She looked so small, so fragile.

He would do anything to protect her.

Pecking her on the forehead, he left, going down the stairs and out the front door, which he locked behind him. Rain pounded against the world, and he bowed his head as he hurried to the driveway. He unlocked the driver side door and slid in behind the wheel. In the rearview mirror, a car sped down the street and hung a sharp turn onto Wilson Street. He narrowed his eyes and sneered; he hated shit like that. The speed limit was fifteen miles per hour on this street, that asshole was going thirty at least. Didn't he realize he could hit a kid or something?

For a brief moment he thought about going after him, but there's a rule in life: Don't shit where you eat. When he was a beat cop, he turned a blind eye to a lot of things his neighbors did - most do. They all knew what he was (the black and white squad car sitting in the driveway was a pretty good indicator that a police officer lived inside), so they minded their Ps and Qs, but everyone slips up eventually.

Stuff like tearing down the street really pissed him off, though.

Shaking his head, he pulled his seatbelt on, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway, going left instead of right. Today was his day off, but the captain called him in to work on the Smalls case.

At least that's what he told Jordan.

Two blocks later, he turned left and followed Patridge Street to Main, where he stopped at a red light. The rhythmic squeak-thump of the wiper blades grated on his nerves, and he leaned over and turned the radio on, spinning the dial and settling for a station playing a newscast. " _...crashed shortly after takeoff yesterday evening, slamming into an interstate overpass. 148 of the 149 onboard were killed, as well as five motorists on the ground. The sole survivor is reported to be a four-year-old girl who was found still belted in her seat."_

Briggs changed the channel - he didn't like hearing about bad things happening to kids.

The light turned green and he turned right as synth-driven pop music filtered from the speakers, a woman's voice high and wavering.

 _Children behave_

 _That's what they say when we're together_

 _And watch how you play_

 _They don't understand_

Briggs stared into the rain, his face dark, eyes predatory. He stopped at another traffic light.

 _Running just as fast as we can_

 _Holdin' on to one another's hand_

 _Tryin' to get away into the night_

 _And then you put your arms around me_

 _And we tumble to the ground_

 _And then you say_

It changed, and he turned onto Franklin Avenue.

 _I think we're alone now_

 _There doesn't seem to be anyone around_

 _I think we're alone now_

 _The beating of our hearts is the only sound_

Last night, after making love to Jordan, he lay awake, one arm bent behind his head and his eyes pointed at the ceiling, his mind on that bastard Loud and what he did. Instead of locking him away for the rest of his pathetic life, they let him out. Can you believe that? Didn't they fucking get it? You can never rehabilitate a pervert. It's not a matter of punishment with people like that, it's prevention. Justice is blind, they say, well, you know what? Sometimes it's dumb too.

 _Look at the way_

 _We gotta hide what we're doin'_

 _Cuz what would they say_

 _If they ever knew_

The Loud house was up ahead on the left, and he slowed as he passed; when he spotted the pedo bastard on the porch, his stomach clutched like an angry fist and his features hardened. Loud was on his knees before the front door, scrubbing something from the wood; Briggs couldn't see it through the rain-beaded window, but it looked like graffiti.

At the end of the street, he pulled an illegal U-turn and came back at a crawl, parking at the curb across and slightly up from the house - he caught flashes of Loud's white hair over the porch railing. Briggs killed the engine but kept the radio on, his eyes never leaving Loud. Look at him, free and clear while somewhere a girl's walking around with mental and emotional scars because of _him_. Does he care? Does it keep him awake at night? Is he even sorry? Briggs bet not - guys like Lincoln Loud only care about themselves.

Maybe the prison didn't care, maybe the county didn't care, maybe the justice system as a whole didn't care, but Chandler Briggs did, and he was going to make damn sure that Loud knew someone was watching him. Keep him on his toes.

And if he caught him hurting a child...he'd blow his fucking head off.

" _American swimmer Lynne Cox has officially become the first person to swim across the Bering Strait today following a two hour…"_

Briggs didn't hear, didn't care; his focus was on Loud entirely - he was a laser guided missile with one target, one goal, and the rest of the world shrank away until it was only him and his prey. Loud got up, stepped away from the door, and surveyed his work, the graffiti all gone now, apparently. Ha. Looked like someone else didn't appreciate having the son of a bitch around; too bad they only defaced a slab of wood instead of going inside and killing him. Who could blame them? Loud was human garbage; anyone who iced him would be doing society a favor.

Nodding to himself, Loud went into the house, and Briggs was alone, sitting back with one hand resting on the wheel. He didn't have to wait very long for more action, though; twenty minutes later, Loud and his mother came back out and got into their car. Briggs sat up straight and turned the key in the ignition, the engine purring. They backed into the street and went left, toward town. When they were a safe enough distance away, Briggs pulled away from the curb and followed, staying two car lengths behind so they wouldn't get suspicious.

From Royal Woods, they got onto Route 9 heading north; trees pressed against the flanks of the highway, broken here and there by driveways and spacious yards fronting rustic frame houses. In Elk Park, they turned onto Avis Street, which runs parallel to the railroad tracks, then, a mile later, into the parking lot of the Royal County DMV. Briggs passed the entrance, turned around, and pulled into the BP on the opposite side of the street, parking near the air pumps just as, across the way, the Louds went inside. _This_ was going to take a while - no one goes to the DMV and leaves in less than an hour.

Since he had the time, he got out, went into the store, and bought a bottle of Coca Cola and a bag of sourdough pretzels. He ate as he watched the building, waiting for the Louds to emerge. At one point, he turned on the police scanner stuck in the dash and listened to radio chatter as he held vigil, but nothing interesting was going on.

After two hours, he was getting impatient and considering calling it quits, but as if summoned by God Himself, they came out and got into the car. Briggs followed them back into Royal Woods, where they pulled into the parking lot of the Save-a-Lot on Jointer Avenue. Briggs pulled in behind them, went ahead, and slid into a space directly across from the front doors. He cut the engine and stared at the rearview mirror, waiting for them to pass behind him. When they did, the mother slightly ahead and Loud straggling behind, he turned to watch them out the driver window, glaring, willing Loud to turn around and see him.

Perhaps feeling his gaze, the pedo jerked a nervous look over his shoulder; their eyes met, and the color drained from Loud's face in a rush. Grinning, Briggs lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers. _Hiiiii, Lincoln._ Loud stared at him for a horrified moment, then whipped his head away and hurried after his mother like a child who heard a scary sound. That's right, Loud, I'm watching you; stay in line or you're a dead man.

* * *

Lincoln stood anxiously by the magazine rack and surreptitiously glanced out the big front window; the white Crown Vic was still there, Chandler a vague and indistinct shape behind the wheel. He looked down at the _People_ in his hands - Elvis Presley stared up at him. **Ten Years Later: Private Scenes from the Life of Rock's Most Enduring Legend.** Lincoln chewed his bottom lip and looked around for his mother, but didn't see her. Other shoppers made their way up and down the aisles, pushing carts and taking things from overcrowded shelves. Lincoln darted his eyes from one face to another, scanning for signs of deception or malice, but seeing none.

It was a coincidence, he told himself, that was all; Chandler lives in town and people who live in town go to the town grocery store sometimes. That's all. Nothing sinister about it. He took a deep, shuddery breath and forced himself to turned to the window.

Still there. Like a spider in a web...watching...waiting.

Someone brushed past him, and he jumped with a tiny cry of alarm. "Oh, I'm sorry," a woman said, castigation in her voice. Lincoln turned: She was tall with short, curly hair and dressed in a blazer with big shoulder pads. With her was a girl about nine or ten, brown hair in a ponytail. Lincoln didn't look at her, only at the woman, his heart clenching when her face contorted in disgust. She threw a protective arm around the girls shoulders and rushed her away, shooting daggers over her shoulder.

He had no idea who she was...but she knew him.

He turned back to the magazine, then returned it to the rack and went off in search of Mom. Heads turned as he passed, and a group of women standing in one of the check-out lanes covered their whispers but not the revulsion in their eyes. He kept his gaze straight ahead, his face blushing red and his stomach sick. He was on the verge of breaking down in tears and screaming at them. _Please leave me alone! Stop looking at me! Stop following me!_ The walls were starting to close in on him, the air getting hotter, heavier, every step like walking through water; he was shaking, cold, clammy, sweating, eyes stared, stared, always staring.

When he found Mom in the produce section, holding an onion in each hand and trying to decide between them, he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. She looked up, and her smile fell. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked. "You look sick."

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I just, my stomach hurts. I'm still not used to...to the food."

Knitting her brows, she regarded him doubtfully, then sighed. "Do you want to go sit in the car?"

Yes.

He wanted to be out of here and away from the hateful stares and whispered derision...but he didn't want to go outside alone. Not where someone could get him and hurt him.

Someone like Chandler.

"No, I'm fine," he said quickly, "I-I can make it."

And he did, but just barely; as Mom made her way slowly from one aisle to another, comparing everything she touched against a leading competitor for maximum quality and price efficiency, Lincoln stood stiffly by her side, trying to ignore the looks people kept giving him. Mom didn't notice, but every time they moved to a new aisle, it cleared out, and no one came down it until they were gone...as though the two of them were lepers. He threw worried glances at the front window, and each time the Crown Vic was there; the last time, Chandler was standing against it with his arms crossed and his jacket pulled back to reveal his gun and badge. Lincoln came to a jarring halt and his heart leapt into his throat in a bid to escape through his mouth and run away. Though he was sure Chandler couldn't see him, he instincively ducked behind a battery display. Up ahead, Mom leaned heavily on the cart and scanned the shopping list.

Licking his lips, Lincoln poked his head up like a small animal coming tentatively out of its burrow and surveying the forest for danger, and like an ever ready hawk, Chandler circled the sky, his eyes big, talons sharp. Why? Lincoln didn't even do anything to him! Why was he picking on him?

 _Pedo. Pedo._

B-But he was trying to change! He wasn't hurting anyone, he just wanted to build a life, that's all.

Mom hummed and turned into one of the check-out lanes. Outside, Chandler shifted from one foot to the other, his head turning slowly back and forth as he swept the front of the store with his steely gaze. Lincoln's paralysis broke and, keeping low, he scurried over and cowered behind his mother. She sensed him and turned, the corners of her lips pulling sharply down. "What are you doing?"

 _Hiding behind Mommy._

"I was looking at the candy," he said quickly and snatched a Twix at random.

"Oh, well, give it here."

"No, I'll pay for it," he said.

"Are you sure?"

Lincoln nodded.

"Okay," she relented.

While she put the groceries onto the conveyor belt, Lincoln craned his neck to see around her. The Crown Vic was gone, like a spider when you turn your back, and Lincoln couldn't decide if he was relieved or terrified - at least when he could see him, he knew where he was; now he could be anywhere, around every corner, in every closet, under every bed. Panic clutched Lincoln's chest and he looked around, sure that he would see Chandler's grinning face inches from his own, eyes blazing, teeth sharp. He didn't, but he did see people looking at him and whispering to each other. A woman glared at him, and a bag boy in a white suit and hat stole a furtive and suspicious glance in his direction. He looked at his feet and wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

The person ahead of them paid and pushed their cart away. The cashier, a pretty, light-skinned black girl, flashed Mom a strained, tight-lipped smile and flicked her eyes to Lincoln; in them he saw fear and loathing. She turned away and scanned Mom's purchases one by one, sliding them along the counter whereupon a bagger shoved them into a series of paper bags. "48.50," she told Mom when she was done.

Someone cleared their throat behind Lincoln, and his blood ran cold. He jerked his head over his shoulder, and a bored looking woman with a perm stood behind her cart. Their gazes met, and Lincoln looked away. _She_ didn't seem to hate him...maybe she didn't know who he was. He hoped she didn't find out; enough people hated him already, he didn't need any more.

Mom slung her purse around, rummaged through, and pulled out her checkbook. She sat it on the counter, produced a pen, and wrote it out. She tore it loose and handed it over, then pushed the cart away. The bagger nodded to her, then he and the cashier both looked at Lincoln.

He gulped, bowed his head, and rushed past, feeling their eyes hot and heavy on his skin. He realized that he was shaking and fighting for breath, his heart throbbing sickly and his stomach twisting into strange and painful shapes. At the door, he looked back like Lot's wife at the destruction of Sodom, and every eye beheld him; a dozen faces pinched in contempt, brows heavy, lips sneering. _Get out of our town...leave our children alone._

I'm not hurting your children! I swear, I just want to be good.

But did he?

Mom was crossing the parking lot and Lincoln realized with a start that he was alone, defenseless and unprotected. Turning tail, he followed, resisting the urge to look back again. Mom was ahead, pushing the cart toward the car. Lincoln started after, but a white sedan cut him off; Chandler's face stared at hm, and Lincoln's knees went weak. Chandler applied the brakes, and the passenger side window buzzed down; he leaned over the seat and glowered at Lincoln. "Keeping it in your pants, Loud?" he asked.

Lincoln trembled.

Chandler nodded to himself, his gaze never wavering. "You better. Or I'll cut it off myself."

A ripple of dread went through Lincoln's stomach and all he could do was nod.

"Good." The window rolled up, and Chandler pulled away, leaving Lincoln quaking and alone. Across the lot, Mom loaded the bags into the trunk, blissfully unaware of what just happened, both in the store and out, for which Lincoln was thankful. He didn't want her to get upset like she did about the paint, and he didn't want her to worry about him.

Ducking his head against the rain, droplets wetting the back of his neck, he crossed the lot and stood awkwardly next to his mother as she stuck the last bag into the trunk and slammed it. "Can you put the cart away, dear?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. He pushed it over to a corral and looked around, spotting the Crown Vic turning left onto Main. He breathed a sigh of relief.

In the car, Mom started the engine and the radio came on. Lincoln snapped his seatbelt over his lap and looked over his shoulder - Chandler was still gone. Whew. " _...Glass spent sixty-two days in captivity. He is said to be doing well. In other news, a house fire in Elk Park killed three people overnight and injured a dozen more. This is ABC News, WKBBL,"_ Mom backed out of the slot and turned right. "This rain is ridiculous," she commented. A fat woman crossed in front of them and she tapped the brakes. She glanced at him and smiled. "Are you excited for getting your license back?"

Lincoln caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and whipped around, his heart stopping. Just a man getting out of a pick-up truck. "Yeah," he said. "Really looking forward to driving again." He didn't know if he was or not - he thought he was when he walked into the DMV, but now the thought of getting behind the wheel after so many years made him kind of nervous.

"It runs good," Mom said, "but sometimes the shifter sticks and it does _not_ do well in the snow." She pulled onto Main Street and went right.

Ten minutes later, they were home, Mom cutting the engine and getting out with a wince; she moved slowly and bared her teeth in pain. "You okay?" Lincoln asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," she said, "just overexerted myself." Gripping the wheel, she pushed herself up and stood to her full height; Lincoln could imagine he heard her old bones creaking.

He got out and looked at her over the roof; the rain had stopped, save for the occasional errant drop. "I can get the groceries," he said. "Go inside and sit down."

Mom started to protest, but stopped and nodded. "Alright. Let me open the trunk." She came around the back and inserted the key into the lock; the lid popped open and she held it down with one hand, removing the key with the other. "Thank you, honey," she said.

"No problem," he smiled.

She shuffled away and up the walk while Lincoln grabbed two bags, hefting one in each arm and carrying them inside to the kitchen. He sat them on the table and went back for the others, passing behind Mom as she dropped into her chair with a weary sigh. At the trunk, he looked nervously around - he didn't see anyone or anything, but he felt exposed; anyone could come by and -

A door closed, and he looked over his shoulder, his heart skipping a beat when the girl from the other day came down the stairs of the house next door. She was clad in a plaid skirt and a white blouse, frilly pink socks playing peekaboo with the tops of her black shoes. Her brown hair was held back in a ponytail and her hazel eyes sparkled even in the absence of sunlight; her face was soft, delicate, and smattered with freckles, and she bounced exuberantly with each step as though filled with boundless energy. Lincoln's eyes brushed down her petite body, to her bare legs like creamy silk, and his mouth went dry.

He was staring. He turned away and went up the walkway, fighting the urge to run and not stop until he was a million miles away. Mom looked up when he stumbled through the front door, and worry knitted her brows. "Honey, are you still feeling ill? You're white as milk."

Lincoln nodded. "Y-Yeah, I-I'm sick. I just...I just need to grab the other bag." He hung his head and hurried to the kitchen, unable to bring himself to look at her - surely she would see the shame, terror...and dark lust in his eyes. In the kitchen, he sat the bags on the table and hugged himself tightly; he was shaking again, panting for air, his stomach stirring like a bed of embers raked by a poker...a poker held in the delicate hand of a beautiful girl with pink lips, twinkling eyes, and budding breasts.

His dick twitched, and he squeezed his eyes closed. She danced across the backs of his lids, and he opened them again, his chest crushing. He knew this song and dance, knew it all too well - it was the one he went through as a teenager, the one that ended in him dragging a little girl to the side of a river, shoving her into tall grass, and molesting her as she wept and pleaded beneath him.

Fully erect now at the memory...and the musical sounds of her screams, at the way her tiny body contracted violently around him, and at her big, watery eyes like tide pools on a tropical shore.

No, no, no, no, God, no, I'm not like that anymore, I'm different, I don't want to be a pedophile. I don't want to go back to prison.

Still shaking, and hunched now to hide his degrading erection, he went to get the last bag, hoping to God and Allah and everything holy that the little girl would be gone.

She wasn't; she skipped rope in the middle of the sidewalk, the hem of her skirt fluttering like butterfly wings and her ponytail swishing from side to side with every leap; the rope made a rhythmic and hollow _clap-clap-clap_ against the wet concrete. Lincoln shuffled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and seriously considered going back inside, groceries be damned. He didn't, though - he was different and changed and he could do this, he just had to ignore her. _Assert your self-control, Mr. Loud,_ the psychiatrist told him.

Swallowing hard, he went to the trunk, grabbed the bag, and slammed the lid. The sweet sound of melodic humming found his ears, a song he thought he recognized but couldn't place. He tensed and it flowed through him like a summer breeze; his dick twitched, and he gritted his teeth.

 _God, please,_ he begged, _don't let this happen again. Don't let me hurt someone else._

He had no way of knowing if God was listening or not. As the prison chaplain used to say:

Only time will tell.


	4. Sooner or Later

**Guest: I deleted all of my sin kids stories. I won't go into why, but I didn't want to be involved in their fandom anymore, I didn't want to write them, and I especially didn't want to give Lemy and Gwen anymore exposure or character development than I already did.**

 **No Happiness: 1987. And thanks for the info.**

 **Guest: No, I probably won't do any scenes like that.**

 **Skydrove24: I don't know if I've ever said this in as many words before, but I guess better late than never: All in all, canon means very little to me. The whole point of me writing this stuff is to take the basic premise of something I like and do new and unique things with it. Other writers agonize over whether or not they used a character's "correct" surname or middle name, but I don't. If I don't know something, or something has not been stated up front in canon, I make it up myself without so much as a second thought. I've been writing for a very long time and coming up with my own stuff on the spot is something I do without even thinking about it. Lincoln's principal is, I think, named Huggins. I've written at least a dozen principal characters in my body of works who are not named that. Canon snobs might take offense to that, but to me it doesn't even register. It's like taking a breath, I don't think about it and I don't consider it a big deal (until I'm choking, of course). To be blunt (and I hope I don't sound like an asshole): I really don't care what Chandler's last name is. In this story, it's Briggs. Coming into my work, it's best to debase yourself of preconceived notions and take things as they come. Take Lemy the sin kid for instance. The way I characterized him...all the stuff that went into making him a fully realized flesh and blood character...that was 100 percent me. I looked at his picture, let it speak to me, and ran with it. There was a canon surrounding him, but I didn't like it so I did my own thing. That's the Flagg way. Some people don't like that, but all I can do is shrug. It's what I have.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone**_ **by Glass Tiger (1986);** _ **Dancing Queen**_ **by ABBA (1976)**

Early Saturday afternoon, Chandler Briggs strapped his daughter into her booster seat and kissed her nose; she responded by giggling and kicking her legs. "You excited?" he asked.

Her head bobbed up and down. "Umhm," she said, "real excited."

It was Deke and Jeanette Jones's daughter's birthday; little Kira was turning five, and it was going to be a _bash to end all bashes,_ Deke said, which meant it was probably going to be a dozen adults standing around talking and barbecuing while a gaggle of kids tore through the backyard like manacs. All in all not a bad way to spend a Saturday, only, as much as he loved BBQ chicken, beer, and spending time with his family, Deke Jones' house was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

"You think Kira's gonna like my present?" Charlotte asked, her eyes serious. Chandler took her to the toy store last week and let her pick out whatever she thought Kira would like, which wound up being a giant plastic Barbie house and a pink Barbie convertible. _That's what I would want,_ she said with a determined nod. He didn't see the appeal, but then again, he wasn't a six-year-old girl.

He pecked the tip of her nose again. "I think she'll love it."

Charlotte smiled. "Me too."

He closed the door and turned just as Jordan came down the walk, clad in a pale yellow dress and holding a covered dish in her hands, her blonde hair done in a French braid that rested limply over one shoulder like a tail. Her ethereal beauty was canceled out by the downward angle of her brows and the hard set of her jaw - she looked mad, but in all fairness, she was. She whipped her eyes at him, then away, her face darkening.

Unlike Deke and Jeanette, Chandler and Jordan didn't fight often, but, like any healthy couple, they did from time to time. This...disagreement...started yesterday when he came home from work. Ostensibly from work; he put in sick time and left early to stake out the Loud house for a little while. When he got home, Jordan was waiting at the door, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face; one foot tapped restlessly against the floor, and Chandler knew he was in trouble. _Where were you?_ She demanded. _I called the station three hours ago and they said you got sick and left._

Damn it. Sometimes he thought Jordan was a psychic - the only lies he'd ever told her were tiny and white as snow (yeah, I stopped smoking; I'm coming right home and _not_ stopping off for a quick drink with the other guys), but she had the uncanny ability to sniff them out like a bloodhound. Sometimes she didn't even mean to, like now; she innocently called the station to ask what he wanted for dinner. It was like the universe was actively conspiring against him.

Looking into her dark, tempestuous eyes, he knew he had a choice to make: Lie or or tell the truth. Lying would only dig him deeper, and telling the truth...he didn't think she'd like that either. He couldn't lie to her, though, not right into her face.

So he told her.

And she _flipped._

 _Are you serious? You've been_ stalking _someone?_

 _No,_ he said, _I've been keeping my eye on him._

 _That's not your place!_

 _Yes it is._

He tried to explain to her that it was his business, her business, and the business of every parent in Royal Woods - a known child molester lived among them. _Guys like him don't change,_ he told her as patiently as he could, _he's going to do it again._

 _You don't know that,_ she said, _you get so obsessed with work sometimes. You read files at the dinner table, for crying out loud._

Okay, he couldn't argue there, he _did_ do that sometimes - when you're putting everything you have into getting a bad guy off the streets, when you've seen how his actions affect people, black eyes on women, broken bones on toddlers, kids convulsing and dying from bad smack and when you look at them and see your own child, it's hard to knock off at 5pm. Being a cop isn't a sometimes kind of job. Metal workers can punch out, go home, and forget about work, cops can't; the things they see, the things the hear, and the things they _know_ follow them, often for the rest of their lives. How could he sit in his armchair and read the paper like someone's neutered tom grandfather when Lincoln Loud lived ten short blocks away? That was close enough to walk! Ever since that bastard came out, Chandler was uneasy even letting Charlotte play in the front yard...the front yard of her own fucking home! Why? Because they let some sicko move in, hardworking, tax-paying, law-abiding citizens be damned.

In as calm and even a tone as he could muster, he pointed all of this out to her, walked her through his point of view step by step by step, metaphorically holding her hand as though she were a child who had just learned to walk.

Still, she just didn't understand. She thought he was being _irrational_ and _creepy. Leave him alone,_ she said and jabbed her finger in his face, _leave everyone alone. You're a cop, you're supposed to do something about people who commit crimes, not ones you_ think _are going to commit crimes._

 _Think?_ He asked. _I_ know _he's going to do it again!_ He was getting uncharacteristically angry with her. Why couldn't she see? It was so fucking simple. Sex predators never get better, they _can't_ get better; they fester like a cancerous tumor until they pop and flood society with lethal toxin in the form of their crimes. They were no better than rabid dogs; they needed to all be euthanized and burned in a pit for all the world to see. Child molesters especially. In fact, they should have their dicks cut off beforehand, then have them shoved into their own asses. The world doesn't care about kids, though. They'll put a rapist away for life, but a dirty fucking pedo like Loud walks free in fifteen. Fuck that. Fuck that shit. He was sick of seeing this kind of garbage day in and day out. There were six other registered sex offenders in Royal County; he should take his gun, go around, and whack all of them. There wasn't a jury in the world who'd convict him, and if one _did_ exist, it was in the Eastern Bloc or China, not here in the good ole U.S.A. - people here value law and order, no matter how much they think hippies and bikers are cool. You take away an American's peace and stability, and see how quick they turn into a hardliner. That's what Hitler did in Germany - there were big clashes in the streets everyday between different political parties, literal riots and violence. The average German was fucking sick and tired of it...then he came along and said _No more. I'll stop this_. You don't need a society of Nazis to create a Nazi nation, just a bunch of pissed off people who'd rather an iron hand than no hand at all. No one would care if he killed Lincoln Loud, except for a bunch of mamby pamby Michael Dukakis liberals.

 _Leave him alone,_ she said sharply. _Worry about your family and not some ex-con._

He loved Jordan to death...but some people just can't comprehend home truths. Lincoln Loud _was_ going to offend again, and he, Chandler Briggs, was going to be there to stop it. Maybe she didn't care, maybe the court system didn't care, but he did - every girl out there is someone's little princess, every single one means to someone, somewhere, what Charlotte meant to him. How could he as a father, as a _man,_ stand back and let a feral fucking dog like Lincoln Loud hurt one of them?

 _He's going to hurt someone,_ he said around a lump of emotion, _a little girl just like_ our _daughter. Imagine it was her being thrown to the ground and raped by a scumbag pedo._

The fire in her eyes flickered like a wind-swept flames; he was getting through, if only _just_.

 _I'm not going to kill him or beat him up or anything like that...I'm just watching._ He laid his hands on her shoulders as if to impart the earnest severity of his emotions, a Baptist minister transferring the Holy Spirit to a new convert. _Just watching. To make sure no one's little girl gets hurt._

As if to punctuate his sentiment, Charlotte squealed laughter from her bedroom, and Jordan glanced over her shoulder

He thought she was going to agree with him, but instead she pulled roughly away. _If you wanna go play hero cop, go play hero cop._ She stormed off, and refused to speak to him for the rest of the night; in bed, the silence between them was chilly, and when he tried to kiss her goodnight, she turned her back on him.

Chandler had no idea why she was taking it _that_ hard - he was just keeping tabs on the guy! For whatever reason, she was, and presently, she brushed past him without so much as a word and climbed into the passenger seat, the dish resting in her lap. Chandler waited a click, hoping she'd turn and say _something,_ but nope, nothing. Sighing, he went around the back of the car and slid in behind the wheel. Jordan stared straight ahead, her profile stony; he put his seatbelt on and started the engine. Music drifted from the speakers, and he ignored it as he backed into the street.

 _If you could see what I have seen oh_

 _The broken hearts and broken dreams oh_

 _Then I wake up, and you're not there_

 _Pain finds me everywhere_

 _Oh, but you don't care_

Charlotte kicked her legs back and forth. "Mommy, can I sing Kira the birthday song?"

"You sure can," Jordan said, her features softening. "Do you remember it all?"

Ever since Deke invited them to the party two months ago, Jordan had been working with her on memorizing Happy Birthday - sometimes he'd walk by her room and she would start singing it as she played.

Charlotte nodded. "I remember _all_ of it."

"Yeah?" Jordan asked and twisted around. "Let me hear it."

Charlotte threw her head back and sang over the radio, her voice, off-key, and as beautiful as everything else about her. "Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Kira! Happy birthday to yooooouuu!" She kicked her legs and threw herself from side to side, her arms going up in a _tah-dah_ gesture that made both him and Jordan laugh.

"You're silly, you know that?" he asked.

"I know," she said.

 _Don't forget me when I'm gone_

 _For heaven's sake_

 _I have loved you for so long_

 _It's nothin' wrong_

His and Jordan's eyes met, and her smile fell into a frown that lacked anger; it was simply sad. _I don't like what you're doing,_ her eyes said, _please stop._

He sighed and nodded slightly. _Okay._ He reached out his hand, and she allowed him to take hers, their fingers twinning together.

It was going to be okay, he thought.

All okay.

Deke and Jeanette Jones lived in a modern two story house on a wide street deep in the heart of the Royal Pines subdivision south of town, a place that Chandler considered for his own family but rejected because the Homeowner's Association there was, in Deke's words, _worse than the Gestapo._ Roses lined the foundation, and pink balloons tied to the mailbox bounced in the breeze. Cars sat in the driveway and along the curb; Chandler pulled in behind a red Tercel with Mississippi plates: That's where Jeanette's family was from. _Real country niggas,_ Deke joked, _I call her grandfather Blind Pappy Jackson because he looks like a thirties bluesman_. Chandler met Mr. Jackson once before, and with his weatherbeaten face, thick white mustache, and dirty denim overalls, he _did_ look the part of a rural blues musician, sitting on the stooped front porch of a Delta shotgun shack.

"Yaaaaay! Birthday!" Charlotte cried.

Chandler squeezed Jordan's hand. "Ready?"

On the surface, the question was simple and straightforward. _Are you ready to get out?_ But it had a deeper, more implicit meaning. _Are you ready to forgive me?_

She stared at him a moment, then a ghost of a smile played at the corner of her lips. "Yeah," she said.

A wood stockade fence enclosed the backyard on three sides and a tall oak with big, spreading branches towered over one corner post, a tire swing danging from one bough. The laughter of children and the smell of barbecuing chicken scent the air, and Chandler's stomach rumbled.

A line of picnic tables sat off to one side, and a big blow up bounce house dominated the middle of the space, kids jumping inside and others clamoring at the entrance for admittance. Charlotte saw it and her jaw literally dropped. She yanked Jordan's hand and pointed. "Look, Mommy!"

"I see," Jordan said. "Do you want to go play?"

Charlotte jumped up and down. "Yes, please!"

While Charlotte dragged Jordan off like a small, vicious mammal pulling its prey into a subterranean den, Chandler went over to the grill, where Deke stood with a spatula in one hand and a can of beer in the other; Jeanette sat at one of the tables with a group of women Chandler didn't recognize...no wait, he knew the big one with white hair and glasses. That was her mother, Faye; sweet old lady and _very_ religious.

Deke looked up, saw Chandler, and grinned. "Hey, there he is," he said. He sat his beer on a tray jutting from the grill and they shook, Deke squeezing Chandler's hand hard and Chandler squeezing back. One of their recent conversations was about their shared disdain for men with limp handshakes, and ever since, when they did this, they tried for a firmer grip than the other.

Both of their smiles were strained but neither would admit defeat. Finally, they pulled apart and each flexed their aching hand. "Where's Kira?" Chandler asked.

Deke nodded toward the bounce house. "In there _somewhere_."

"You lost your daughter?"

Just then, a little boy cried out in pain. "Owww, she _bit_ me!"

"Nope," Deke said, "I know exactly where she is now."

Kira was going through a phase where her favorite thing to do was bite people. Deke had no idea why, but sometimes she'd walk right up to you, flash a big, toothy smile, then take your damn finger off, right to the knuckle.

Shoving the flat end of the spatula under a chicken breast painted red with sauce, Deke said, "There's beer in the cooler if you want one. No Shiely Temples, though, sorry."

"I got your Shirley Temple alright,' Chandler said as he went over to a red cooler with a white top. He opened it, grabbed a can from ice, and cracked it open. He spotted Jordan standing to one side of the bounce house's opening; behind a screen of mesh, Charlotte jumped and laughed hysterically. Aching love filled Chandler's chest, and he forced himself to look down into his beer lest he tear up.

He thought of Lincoln Loud, out there at this very moment. What was he thinking? What was he _doing?_ He envisioned him standing beside a window, pressed against the wall and peering through the edge of the curtain, his eyes filled with unholy lust and his lizard like tongue swiping across his bottom lip. Outside, innocent little girls skipped rope and played hopscotch, totally unaware that they were being stalked by a monster.

"...you know?" Deke laughed.

"Yeah," Chandler said, even though he had no idea what his partner said.

"He calls himself The Puppetmaster," Deke continued. " _I_ wanted a clown, but Kira likes that puppet on PBS. Porkchop? Chopshop? I dunno. Jenny said _it's about Kira and not you_." He made an _okay then_ face and flipped another piece of chicken. "Clowns are cool."

Chandler nodded; he didn't like clowns himself and never had. "A magician would have been nice."

Deke pointed the spatula at him. "That was my next choice." He took a sip of his beer and sighed. "As long as she has fun, I don't care. I'd still rather see a guy pull a rabbit out of his hat than a puppet dancing around."

Yeah, and Chandler would rather see Lincoln Loud than either one of those, but you can't always get what you want.

He tipped his beer back and drained it. He never told Jordan he would stop, but he implied it.

Therefore…

It wasn't _really_ a lie…

* * *

Lori looked different than she did three years ago - thinner, more haggard. She was only forty-two and already lines were forming at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and dark age spots blemished her sallow skin. Lincoln was both nervous and excited to finally see her again, and spent most of the previous night lying awake in bed, imagining their meeting going every way it could: In one vision, she laughed, hugged him, and called in _little bro,_ and in the next she looked at him like the people in the grocery store and sniffed. _Pedo._

He also thought about the girl next door. He didn't know her name and he was too afraid to ask Mom anything about her or her family. It might look suspicious.

But only because it was. Heh.

During his long, anxious night, which began when he went up to his room just after dinner, he learned something: If he knelt on his desk and looked out his window, he could see into her room; it wasn't directly across, but he had a fairly good line of sight if he strained a little. Her curtains were pink and bathed with light, and for the longest time he watched them with bated breath, his stomach clutching every time her shadow fell across them. Lithe. Slim. Girlish. He could imagine her walking around on polished toes, clad in only a thin, white nightgown with a pink ribbon on the chest; her thick brown hair spilled over her shoulders and her dark eyes sparkled in the low, comfortable light of a bedside lamp. Music drifted from a radio he couldn't see, and she danced a gentle rhythm, her body swaying softly from side to side; here she spun slowly as if in the arms of a phantom lover. Her cheeks blushed red as she fantasized hands on her hips, her teeth brushing her lower lip and her curious eyes filling with aching, adolescent lust.

 _You can dance_

 _You can jive_

 _Having the time of your life_

 _Ooh, see that girl_

 _Watch that scene_

 _Dig in the dancing queen_

Lincoln licked his lips and pressed his face to the warm window pane. He couldn't see her, but he could _feel_ her; tilting her head back and grazing her hands up and down her body, pretending they belonged to a boy to whom she would give herself after one final dance.

 _Friday night and the lights are low_

 _Looking out for a place to go_

 _Where they play the right music_

 _Getting in the swing_

 _You come to look for a king_

 _Anybody could be that guy_

 _Night is young and the music's high_

She slipped her hands under the hem of her dress, white fabric brushing up smooth, silken skin, her closed eyelids fluttering and her lips quivering when her fingertips found her warm center. She bobbed her head to one side, imagining warm lips trailing wet kisses along the slope of her throat. She ran her fingers through her folds; her knees quaked and knocked, her toes wiggled against shag carpet in search of purchase - her unseen lover was bringing her to the point of no return and he'd only just begun.

 _You are the dancing queen_

 _Young and sweet_

 _Only seventeen_

 _Dancing queen_

 _Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeah_

 _You can dance_

 _You can jive_

 _Having the time of your life_

Ragged, animal exhalations puffed against the glass, fogging it. He rubbed the condensation away and shifted; his pants were tight and dark hunger pangs cut through his stomach. She was lying on her bed now, her dress pushed up around her hips to reveal her dank sex, her hips rocking and her thighs parting as she played with herself.

 _You're a teaser, you turn 'em on_

 _Leave 'em burning and then you're gone_

 _Looking out for another_

 _Anyone will do_

 _You're in the mood for a dance_

 _And when you get the chance_

At the moment her orgasm hit, she looked at him...and he knew that she was thinking about him.

He couldn't take anymore; he broke, took his dick out of his pants, and masturbated furiously, his forehead smooshed to the glass and his breathing coming in short, hot gasps. His hand pounded monotonously against the wall as she propped her legs into an M and rode out her climax, her precious core bucking against her shaking hand. She thrashed underneath him, whimpering; her smell; the taste of her lips; her boiling well burning when he thrusted into her, tearing her hymen and making her cry out.

With a breathy grunt, Lincoln swelled and burst, his body wracking with tremors as long ropes of shameful cum splattering the wall. He squeezed his eyes closed and gritted his teeth, tears of self-hate and humiliation streaming down his face.

For a long time afterwards, he stayed where he was, panting for air and sobbing quietly into the darkness, guilt and mortification flowing through his like sour wine. The smoke of arousal dissipated from his mind, and he could see clearly now, just like the old song, and what he saw disgusted him.

He saw weakness.

He was weak, and everything he worked fifteen years to attain was slipping through his fingers just as surely as did his cooling seed. All the therapy, all the shaking, weeping, heartfelt prayers to God, all the bold declarations as he lay in his bunk at night _I will never..._ all of it was crumbling before his very eyes.

And while he could damn well watch...he didn't think he could stop it.

He didn't think he _wanted_ to.

For hours he lay awake thinking of her, and of Lori, and by the time he dozed off shortly before dawn, he was a tangle of knotted dread. In his sleep, he saw the Route 25 bridge, saw himself climbing onto the ledge and looking down at I-75, cars and tractor trailers whizzing by in either lane.

Saw himself jumping; his stomach lurched as the world went out from under him, and then he was falling, falling, but he never hit the ground, never entered the embrace of death...never found relief from the urges. He was in hell, he realized, damned to forever plummet, his demons literally and metaphorically eating him from the inside out.

It wasn't fair; he didn't _want_ to be this way...he wanted to be good and normal, he wanted a wife and kids and happiness.

He didn't ask for this.

He just wanted to be like everyone else.

The next morning, he sat in the living room next to Mom, drawing strength and comfort from her presence; he absently stared at the TV screen, seeing but not registering Bob Barker on _The Price is Right_. He stole furtive glances at his mother; old and weathered as she may be, she was like an oak, and as long as he held fast to her, she would protect him.

She _had_ to.

Lori arrived at a quarter to two; Lincoln opened the door and she stood on the porch in a pair of loose blue slacks and a white blouse, her purse slung over her shoulder. "Hey," she said around the filter of a Lucky Strike, the word drawing out. She threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a cold, boney hug, the stench of alcohol and cigarettes filling his nose and making him gag. She let him go and held him at arm's' length, a slow, bleary smile creeping across her tired face. "You look good," she said, and her voice was just a little thicker than it should have been.

"Thanks," he said, "so do you."

Inside, Lori and Lincoln sat on the couch, Lori with her legs and arms crossed and Lincoln bent forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "Lora wanted to come but she couldn't make it. She's taking summer classes so she can be done with school sooner," she said.

"That's too bad," Mom said, "I was hoping to see her, and I know your brother was too."

"I told her she could afford to miss one class, but she's such an overachiever." She laughed harshly. Lori, growing up, was not. She wasn't a good student and she wasn't a bad one either; mediocre, her report card once called her. Shaking her head, she slipped a cigarette from her pack, stuck it into her mouth, and lit it, acrid blue smoke filling the air. Lincoln's nose crinkled and he winced in expectation of Mom yelling at her to put it out, but she didn't, which confused Lincoln; she used to be really strict about no one smoking in the house. She caught Luna doing it in the laundry room once and went ballistic - _take that damn thing outside where it belongs._ Now, she didn't even bat an eyelash. "She probably lied to spend time with that Ritchie boy," she said.

Mom laughed. "I remember telling your grandmother I was going to the church hall to help make boxed lunches for the poor...then meeting your father in the apple orchard."

"At least Dad had a job," Lori said bitterly.

"Not much of one," Mom pointed out. "He picked apples for 25 cents an hour."

Lori took a sharp drag of her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. The insides of Lincoln's nostrils itched and he fought back the urge to sneeze. Guys used to smoke in prison all the time and it really agitated his lungs; you'd walk out of your cell and this blue vapor hanging in the air attacked you like demonic spirits. It wasn't quite that bad now, but ugh. "Then he joined the army," Lori said.

"Drafted," Mom corrected. "He didn't want to go."

"I don't blame him," Lori snorted. "I wouldn't have wanted to go either. I'd rather that than being a bum and rapping. Have you heard that stuff? It's so black." She shook her head sadly. "Robbie's not a bad kid, he's just lazy. No initiative. He'll never be anything. Never."

Lincoln balled his hands and twiddled his thumbs. He was content just listening to the cadence of his mother and older sister's voices, though he _did_ want to ask how Lora was, but Lori might take it the wrong way, even if only subconsciously. Best to pretend she didn't even exist.

"They said Elvis would never be anything either," Mom said, "he was unloading trucks when they found him."

Lori took a drag and hummed. "Robbie Ritchie is no Elvis." She looked at Lincoln. "You alive over there, Linc?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said quickly and nodded. "I'm fine. Just listening."

"You're as quiet as a tomb on resurrection day," Mom said with a strained laugh.

He shrugged. "Just listening."

"How are you settling in?" Lori asked and sucked her cigarette the way an old person with emphysema might oxygen from a mask.

Lincoln squirmed under her gaze. Being the oldest, Lori was an authority figure growing up, like Mom but without the warmth and tenderness. She wasn't a bad sister, but she was his sister, not his mother, and a sister can only love you with so much of her heart, not like a mother - her love is total and unconditional. Even now, as a grown man, she made him nervous. "Fine," he said, and his mind instantly went back to what he did last night; a hot blush spread across the back of his neck and his mouth was suddenly dry. He wondered with a start if she knew. Could she smell it on him? See it in his eyes? Sense it in the air like electricity? His heart and soul were corrupt, and corrupt things stink.

Lori took another puff, turned her head away, and blew it out.

"You find work yet?"

"Not yet," Lincoln said.

"He's been looking," Mom commented, "but it's hard for people who've been to prison. Employers can be so damn intolerant."

She was partly right, they could be, but after that first day, he hadn't been looking even though he told her he was. Yesterday, he lied and said he was going to put in applications, instead he passed much of the afternoon sitting on a bench in the town square, cast in the looming shadow of the Art Deco courthouse and staring at the statue of Percy Princeton, Royal Woods' founder. He didn't know if town square counted as a park, and after a little worrying, he decided that if anyone bothered him, he had enough of a defense to slither away. _I didn't know it was a park. Come on, I know I'm a pedophile, but I have to go out in public_ some _time._

At sunset, he walked home with his hands in his pockets and his head hung. He felt like shit for lying to Mom, but he couldn't handle the cold stares and snide remarks. _Oh, you're a pedophile. We don't employ your kind. Please leave our town and die._ Just thinking about it made him shake.

"I guess second chances are too much to ask for," Lori said venomously. She leaned forward and tapped her ash in a glass ashtray on the coffee table, and Lincoln's brows knitted. He honestly hadn't seen it before; then again Mom had ornamental knicknacks everywhere, and long ago he stopped paying attention to them. "You'd probably be better off moving to a city when you get off parole. They're not as bigoted there."

Mom hummed. "That might be best."

"It really would be. You can lose yourself in a city; no one cares who you are or what you do. Detroit is like that; everyone keeps to themselves and won't even look at you." She slapped the back of her hand across Lincoln's chest, and he jumped, his heart skipping and his mind flashing back to all the beatdowns he'd taken over the years. "Maybe you can come down to Detroit when you're off. The hospital's always looking for custodians and groundskeepers, and they aren't picky; as long as you don't do drugs and show up for work, they'll love you." She took one final drag and then stubbed her cigarette out. "You guys wanna go out for lunch? I'm buying."

An hour later, they sat at a booth in the smoking section of a Western Sizzlin' on Route 29 south of Elk Park; blue vapor hung in the air like nuclear fallout, and Lincoln's eyes stung. The dining room was largely empty save for a few old couples taking advantage of the early bird special and a family in the booth next to theirs. Lincoln kept his head down when he sat, and didn't realize he was facing them until he looked up...and two kids, a boy and a girl, watched him over the back of the booth, one on either side of an oblivious Lori's head. They were about six - the boy had dark hair and eyes, and the girl had long, curly locks the color of dirty sand. Lincoln's stomach tightened and he glanced quickly down at his menu.

"...we _always_ argue, Mom," Lori said and laughed humorlessly. "That man is never satisfied. I stop trying ten years ago. Why bother? If all he's going to do is gripe and groan, there's no point. You know, last week he was just going on and on and on about me smoking..."

Lincoln scanned the pictures - steak, lobster, chicken, ribs - then looked tentatively up. The kids were no longer watching, and he breathed a sigh of relief. An image came to him and he shut it out before it could fully form, but he caught a flash of the little girl lying naked on the floor, her dress and panties bunched up on the floor near her head. His loins stirred and he bit down so hard on the inside of his bottom lip he drew blood - pain streaked into the center of his head and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. The thought burned away, and he dig his teeth deeper until the only thing in his skull was red, throbbing agony.

"You okay, Linc?" Lori asked worriedly. "You're bleeding."

Lincoln touched his chin and his fingertips came away slick with red; droplets splattered the front of his shirt like hellish rain and rivulets coursed down the corners of his mouth.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mom asked, her voice high with concern. "You're gushing."

"It happens sometimes," he lied quickly and got up, bumping the table; glasses clinked and the napkin dispenser wobbled. "They never let us see a dentist in prison."

Not giving them a chance to press further, he hurried across the dining room, nearly collided with a waitress carrying a tray of food, and slammed through the bathroom door. At one of the sinks, he turned the faucet on with a trembling hand and looked at himself in the mirror, his reflection was pale and haggard, dark circles around his red eyes. Slick blood coated his chin, and the sight of it made his stomach twist. He looked away, grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, then held it under the flow and dabbed his lip. An image struck him and he jerked as if shot: The little girl on her stomach, her hands tied behind her back and her bare butt thrust into the air. She whimpered in fear as he leaned over her, his fingers threading tenderly through her hair. _I won't hurt you,_ he whispered huskily and placed a trembling kiss to her shoulder. _I promise._

Only he _did._ He grabbed her hips, pressed his head to her opening, and thrusted roughly into her. She threw back her head and shrieked in pain, her muscles spasming hysterically and her body clamping down on his shaft in a vain and desperate attempt to expel the foreign intrusion.

Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed and willed the vision away, his teeth baring in determination. It faded, but slowly, and after, he was cold and shaking.

He finished up, cut the spray, and left, crossing through the dining room with his eyes on his feet. The place was starting to fill with patrons, and the din of a thousand voices pushed him along like the tide whispering dark secrets to the shore. At the table, he slid in next to Mom.

"You okay, honey?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Lincoln said. He nervously darted his eyes up, and relief went through him when he saw that the girl and her family were gone.

Lori flashed a tight, worried smile. "You need to see a dentist," she said.

"I-I know," Lincoln said.

"I'll make you an appointment with mine," Mom said and scanned her menu.

After lunch, they went home and Lori left shortly before five, giving Lincoln a warm, sisterly hug and a peck on the cheek. "It was good seeing you again."

"You too," he said earnestly.

He stood on the porch and watched her drive away with one final farewell beep. Inexplicable loss pinched his chest and he felt strangely alone. He started to go back inside, but froze when the neighbor girl rode by on a pink bike, her hair streaming behind her like wind-swept silk and the hem of her skirt pulling back from her thigh as she pumped her legs. Evil desire ignited in the pit of his stomach and this time, he wasn't sure he could extinguish it.

She disappeared down the block, then came back a moment later, leaning over the handlebars with a lowered-brow look of determination on her face, pretending, perhaps, that she was the first female to compete in the Indy 500. Lincoln's feet drew him to the railing, and he laid his hands on the splintery wood, his eyes following her as she disappeared then came back again. He saw himself taking her in his bedroom, laying her on the bed, and unhurriedly undressing her, starting by pulling her white, frilly socks slowly off of her feet, then ghosting his fingertips across her warm, fragrant skin. Her eyes were big and curious, pooled with a mixture of apprehension and excitement; her cheeks blazed with color and ragged exhalations burst from her pink, quivering lips. Strange new feelings surged through her body, and she couldn't tell if she liked them or not. Lincoln had to show her...kiss her...spread her thighs as far apart as they could go and slam deep into her virgin core, claiming her innocence and her childhood.

He realized he was fully erect and panting like an animal. If he didn't run away, he would do something bad.

Turning away, he rushed back into the house, bent slightly at the waist to hide his shameful erection.

In his room, he sank onto the edge of his bed and held his face in his hands, stinging tears welling in his eyes and then spilling down his cheeks. In that moment, he knew.

He couldn't control himself.

Sooner or later...he was going to do it again.


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**BegottenSpud: A House Divided will continue. I am also bringing back No Way Home after a few minor changes.**

 **Anonymous789: That's what I was going for with that chapter title. They're both predators, and they're both stalking their own respective prey.**

 **Skydrove24: Lori's the only one. I wanted a small cast and a claustrophobic atmosphere, and in that spirit, decided to leave most of the sisters out.**

* * *

Monday morning, Chandler made his way through the tranquil streets of Royal Woods on his way to the station, his hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel and his face drawn in an expression of worry. Music drifted from the radio, but he was deaf to it; when he came to a traffic light, he stopped by instinct alone. He stared straight ahead at the road, his sightless, unblinking, dark bags under his bloodshot eyes; last night, his sleep was thin, fitful, and haunted by nightmares - on Saturday, he didn't sleep at all.

He pulled into the parking lot, passing a squad car heading out on patrol, and turned into his spot, killing the engine but not getting out.

Justice and the law, he believed, were not always the same thing. If they were, men like Lincoln Loud would be summarily executed or at least locked away in prison for the rest of their lives, where they couldn't hurt anyone. That was not the case, however; they were given a time out, then patted on the butt at the end of it all and sent on their way. When he was a child, his passion was true crime: He read as many magazines and paperbacks on the subject as he could find, learning everything there was to know about mass murderers, serial killers, gangsters, and every other flavor of scum. The number of cases where a sex predator went to jail then came out and reoffended with deadly results was staggering. John Wayne Gacy went to prison in 1968 for sexually assaulting a young boy and got out in eighteen months: Between 1972 and 1978, he raped and murdered thirty-three boys. Harvey Carrigan raped and killed a woman in Alaska in 1949 - they let his ass out and he killed at least two more. Carroll Cole was in and out of prison during the seventies for attacking women and girls, but they let him out every time, and soon, the attacks turned deadly. There were more...too many more, a virtual army of rapists and child molesters who proved themselves unworthy of freedom, but were given it anyway. Oh, and how those liberal bastards at the ACLU _pushed_ for it. If they had their way, all the prisons would be empty and there would be an abortion clinic manned by a cannibal sex offender on every corner. How can anyone, liberal or fucking not, want a man like Lincoln Loud in society? How can they sleep at night knowing that somewhere in the great black, a little boy or girl is being hurt, screaming and crying in fear and pain, because of _them_ , because _they_ lobbied for pieces of shit to be freed?

Sitting there behind the wheel of his Crown Vic, a sneer on his face and boiling lead in his eyes, Chandler thought back to Saturday afternoon, after the party. He went to make himself a cup of coffee and, oops, the milk slipped from his hand, and he was too slow to save it all from spilling out. _Damn. I'll run to the store and get more._

On his way, he drove by 1216 Franklin Avenue, and there, on his porch, was Lincoln Loud.

Staring at a little girl on a bike the way a dog might stare at a side of beef in a butcher shop window, need and hunger so clear in his face you didn't have to be a detective, or even a beat cop, to see it.

Chandler's eyes went to the girl, and he knew in an instant that given half the chance, Lincoln would hurt her the way he hurt the Myers girl fifteen years ago….he'd hike her skirt up, yank down her panties, and shove her face into the mud...he'd rape her while she begged him to stop...and this time, knowing first hand what happens to child molesting fucks, he might even kill her so she wouldn't tell.

Coldness settled over him and his mind began to work. He got the milk, went home, and spent the rest of the evening in his armchair, staring into the ether and thinking dark thoughts. At one point, Charlotte came in to watch _Kate and Allie_ on CBS - he didn't know what she saw in that show, but she loved it. Sitting Indian style in the middle of the floor, she laughed at all the dumb jokes and corny pratfalls that characterized every sitcom ever, and Chandler watched her with a wistful frown. If he went through with what he was planning, it would hurt her in a thousand different ways, and God knows hurting his little girl was the last thing he wanted to do, ever. But across town, a very bad man was planning to hurt someone else's little girl, and every time Chandler contemplated it, he saw Charlotte's face. It wasn't just a girl Lincoln Loud was going to molest, it was _her_ , and righteous fury, like the fire and brimstone of an angry god, raged in his his beast.

He'd be careful. He was a detective, he knew what cops looked for at crime scenes; he could make it like he was never there, and even the best CSI team in the country wouldn't find anything.

That night, he lie awake staring into the darkness and going over his plan again and again, mentally making changes here and there until, after a while, it was something different entirely. He wanted to act quickly, before Loud had a chance to hurt someone, but he had to be cautious. He knew damn well he could avoid getting caught, but it would take work and diligence. They say only fools rush in, and that's true; it'd be far too easy for him to go into it overconfident and get sloppy. The number of serial killers who killed, went to prison, then came out to kill again was, he reminded himself, outweighed only by the number of serial killers who thought they were geniuses and let their guard down. Cops aren't dumb, especially homicide detectives, and they would pounce on the slightest indiscretion.

Could he really do this, he asked himself? Could he risk his family and his freedom? That question plagued him all Sunday. At church, he sat in a pew between his wife and daughter, his dress suit pinching his neck and the air stifling. Charlotte fidgeted uncomfortably as the pastor sermonized the crowd - sinners would burn in hell and the chosen would ascend to the kingdom of God. The same message it had always been and the same message it would always be. Men come and go, nations rise and fall, but God, in whatever form he takes, is forever. Most of it went in one ear and out the other, his mind too full to accept new stimuli - sorry, lady, gotta have that baby in the manger out back. How would he do it? Snatch him off the street? That'd be the easiest way but also the riskiest - someone could see and catch his licence plate number. Break into his house? There was a higher chance of leaving evidence behind...and then there was the old woman to think about. She might be harboring that son of a bitch, but as a parent himself, he could almost understand her support of him.

By the time the service was over, his center rolled sickly and nervous bile coated the back of his throat. Like every Sunday, he took Charlotte and Jordan to Denny's for breakfast. The smell of cooking bacon and sizzling sausage turned his stomach, and his pancakes tasted like mush in his mouth. The more he turned the plot over in his mind, the more undecided he became. It was one thing to think vaguely of something but quite another to _seriously consider_ it. He sighed and focused on Charlotte; she sat across from him, humming and dividing her attention between her pancakes and coloring the placemat, her head bowed and the rays of the morning sun falling over her like divine light, setting her dirty blonde hair afire. An image crossed his mind and his heart sank - her lying in the mud, her eyes wide with fright and tears streaking through the dirt on her face. A rough, calloused hand, as big as the flat end of a shovel, grabbed the front of her dress and yanked, ripping it from her body. She wailed in fear and trembled like a frightened animal as the hand stroked her naked chest, its broken, black-caked nails making white scratch-lines in her tender flesh.

 _D-Daddy,_ she hitched.

Chandler blinked and tried to will the awful premonition away, but it remained, a black shadow falling over her like the coming night. _Your Daddy isn't here,_ a voice said, deep, ominous...otherworldly yet familiar.

 _Don't hurt me,_ Charlotte begged.

The hand closed around her throat, and Chandler's heart exploded with primal fear. Her eyes widened and she thrashed in a desperate attempt to break its hold. _Stay still, little girl,_ the voice said, _you're gonna like this._

Chandler squeezed his eyes closed but he could see anyway; she jumped and let out an excruciated shriek when the attacker thrusted into her.

He was so shaken that he jumped up and rushed to the bathroom, knocking into a waitress and nearly upsetting the tray perched on her upturned hand. Alone, he knelt before a cracked and reeking toilet, piss soaking through the knees of his pants, and puked so hard his vision grayed at the edges and his skull throbbed.

When he came back to the table, Jordan favored him with concern. "You alright?" she asked as he sat.

"Yeah," he said, surprised by the evenness of his voice, "my stomach just feels a little iffy. That's all."

It was the truth: Even hours later, at home and sitting in his chair, nasuaia rolled through him like a storm surge, and the bitter taste of vomit lingered in his mouth no matter how many times he brushed his teeth and gurgled with mouthwash. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his daughter's battered face and cold water shot through his veins. If he thought of her...if he kept that image in front of him like a motivational snapshot...he could do it. He could do _anything_.

Whatever it took to protect his little girl.

To protect _all_ the little girls.

Now, two days later, his mind was made up...he was going to kill Lincoln Loud.

* * *

It was happening.

Pacing back and forth between his desk and the door, a distance of seven steps, Lincoln Loud tangled his fingers through his snowy white hair and pulled, bringing tears to his eyes but no relief to his condition. Anger tinged with fear bubbled up inside of him, and he lashed out as he passed the dresser, hitting Bun-Bun with a sloppy right and sending him to the floor, where he kicked him away.

He was losing it.

It wasn't fair! He was trying to be good! He wanted a job and a normal life and maybe even a family one day, but instead he was seething with aberrant urges that wouldn't stop, wouldn't let him rest, wouldn't go away even in his sleep: At night he dreamed of her, and in those dreams, her eyes were dark and cruel, her lips a mocking sneer, her hands resting on her hips and her brow lowered in malice. _Come and get me. I won't tell._

Only...she would, and he'd go back to jail, probably forever this time. He could see himself now, withering behind bars like a plant denied the nurturing kiss of the sun, the seasons changing with cinematic rapidity, his face wrinkling and growing old, his shoulders stooping, his eyes fading like heat-bleached pavement, his everything draining slowly away because of _her_.

Lincoln bared his teeth as irrational hatred swept him like a prairie fire. He knew on some level that she wasn't doing it on purpose...she was just a child...but that didn't matter; she _was_ doing it...strutting around like a bitch in heat, her butt stuck out. _Come and mate me, Lincy._ He was crazily reminded of a book he read in prison, something about folklore and legends from various cultures. There was a type of ghost somewhere...Asia or Mexico...that supposedly lured people off of paths and lead them deep into the forest, where they became hopelessly lost and eventually died. That was her; she was trying to tempt him into sin, just like Satan did to Jesus in the Bible. It didn't work on Jesus because He was God and _knew_ it, how can you be weak when you're literally a deity? Lincoln was a man...a weak man...and he was going to wind up following her if he wasn't careful.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed, brought his thumb to his lips, and nervously chewed the nail between his teeth. What day was it? Tuesday, he thought, or maybe Wednesday. He couldn't tell the difference anymore...they all blurred together. Sleep. Eat. Think. Watch TV and try to forget. At night, he sat on his desk and peered at the lighted window across the yard, his throat tight, heart racing. Sometimes he saw her silhouette on the curtain, and his stomach would clench. He'd press his face against the glass and hope for just a fleeting glimpse, a flash of skin or silky hair, a rustling wisp of white fabric as she fluttered past in her nightgown. Desire overcame him, and beneath it rage, the same rage he felt when he grabbed the Myers girl - rage at God, rage at his compulsions, rage at himself.

The day he did it, the fever was hotter than ever, burning his mind and body. He paced endlessly back and forth for hours, stopping only to masturbate, but it grew steadily higher and brighter. Finally, he broke and made the biggest mistake of his life.

He took a walk.

He told himself it was just to clear his head, but deep in his heart of hearts, he knew better...he was going to do something to someone, and nothing could stop him. He wound up at the park, which separates Royal Woods Middle from a lower middle class neighborhood, squat one story homes lining narrow streets. He was naturally drawn to the playground, where a gaggle of children climbed over the equipment and chased each other, their screaming laughter thick in the spring air. He watched from a distance, blushing and shaking, panting for air, his stomach in knots and his heart blasting against his ribs.

This was it. He couldn't stop himself from taking one of them even if he wanted to. He looked around and spotted a group of women sitting on a bench and talking, one of them bouncing a baby in her lap. On the other side of the playground, a group of teenage boys threw a football back and forth, one jumping into the air to grab it as his buddies charged him. Elsewhere, people flew kites, fed ducks, or moved languidly along the walkways and enjoyed the weather. There were too many.

And that's when he saw her cutting across the empty baseball diamond, a tall, slim girl in a dark skirt and white button-up, blue socks pulled to her knees and her brown hair parted down the middle. She passed the dugout, turned left, and started toward a stand of trees, a faint, dreamy smile on her lips - she looked like she was thinking of a boy.

Lincoln tracked her with his eyes as she crossed the field and disappeared down a dirt path, his jack slack, his stomach spinning, and his dick getting hard. He could do it. He could really do it.

Every logical bone in his body screamed at him to turn around and go home, but his feet made his decision for him.

In the present, he blinked and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, memories swirling through his head like mustard gas. Crouching behind a tree, watching her, hating her for what she was doing to him and hating himself for not being able to get control; springing out as she passed, his teeth baring and his hand clamping over her mouth; how she fought against him; dragging her to the river's edge; flinging her to the ground, lost in his animal lust; other things.

He swallowed thickly and hugged himself, beginning to rock back and forth. If anyone were to walk through the door and see him, they would be reminded of straightjacketed madman in the corner of a padded room, and that's how he felt; demons clawed at his body, whispered strange and blood-chilling invocations, fanned the flames of his wicked passion until they consumed him.

Yesterday, he met with his parole officer, and spent nearly half an hour in his office, forcing a smile he didn't feel and pretending that he _wasn't_ being eaten alive by need. He worried the entire time that Evans would see through his ruse and send him back to prison, but he was good at hiding it apparently. He should be; he'd been doing it for close to twenty-five years. _There's a support group for...people...like you,_ Evans said before he left, his voice dripping with contempt, _I want you to meet with them._ He handed Lincoln a card: The first meeting was that evening at nine in the basement of the 16th Street Baptist Church.

When he arrived hours later, he found just what he was expecting: A circle of metal folding chairs in an out-of-the-way rumpus room, stale doughnuts and a metal coffee urn on a table flanking one cream colored wall. The "counselor" was a short man with a balding head, black Buddy Holly glasses, and a pug nose that looked as though it had been smooshed flat by a frying pan. His name was Pastor Johnson - for some reason, Lincoln was certain that his first name was Bob...he looked like a Bob. _It's good to have you,_ he said as he jotted Lincoln's name down on an adhesive tag and handed it to him. His tone was too friendly, too upbeat, to be genuine; Lincoln instantly disliked him.

Six other "guests" showed up. One of them, Lincoln was mildly surprised to see, was a woman. Her name was Sondra and she was the very definition of "plain": Long, straight hair, thick glasses, bland features, and a low, monotonous voice that neither rose nor fell with the cadence of her speech.

Pastor Johnson had everyone sit while he stood in the middle, then called upon each sex offender to introduce themselves. Lincoln was next to last, by the time the holy man's eyes fell on him, he was a mess of nerves, his face blushing hot and his stomach quivering violently. He hated crowds, hated public speaking, and hated talking about his affliction. _Lincoln?_ Pastor Johnson urged.

Lincoln stood on rubbery knees and stammered, his blush deepening. "M-M-My name's L-Lincoln Loud and I-I just got out of prison for...for a sex crime."

"Hi, Lincoln," everyone mumbled in unison.

Pastor Johnson nodded encouragingly, and Lincoln cast his gaze to the floor. "I-I did something I'm not proud of and I-I'm just trying to get my life back on track."

His knees gave out and he dropped heavily back into the chair. Pastor Johnson nodded and moved onto the last offender. When the meeting was over, Lincoln scurried away as quickly as he could. Fifteen minutes later, he passed the house next door and slowed almost against his will, his eyes going to the darkened front windows. Behind those walls, the girl waited, her evil power drawing him to her like a siren calling sailors to their doom on jagged rocks.

In that moment, he wished she would die...choke in her sleep or suffer a stroke..something, anything, because with every breath she took, she was leading him into the forest of his own sin, deeper and deeper until he'd become lost and never, ever find his way back.

That night, he paced the floors and tried to think of something else. He called Lynn and spent fifteen minutes exchanging strained pleasantries before she "had to go." Maybe his nerves were just overwrought, but he got the feeling she didnt want to talk to him. Over the past week, he called each one of his sisters and all of them sounded uncomfortable, as though he were a monster and not their brother.

At one point, he sat on the couch and basked in the comforting company of his mother. Being around her didn't make the thoughts go away, but it made them more manageable. The night before, or maybe the one before _that,_ he masutbated to thoughts of the girl next door, and before he could finish, his malevolent passion crested. He stopped, got up, and went downstairs before he could stop himself, intent on taking her, but his foot creaked on one of the treads and Mom called out. _Lincoln? Is that you?_

Her voice was like a brisk slap in the face, and he shook the trance from his head. _Yeah, just getting some water._ If it weren't for her careful watch, and for the strength he derived from her, he'd have done it; he'd be sitting in jail right now thinking of fashioning a noose from his pillowcase just like he did the first time.

The worst part of it all...going to prison, throwing away his life, giving sway to his demons and letting the Myers girl lead him astray...was that fucking her didn't even satisfy him. It was good compared to his hand, but still somehow hollow. He touched her entire body, kissed it, rutted into her as deep and fast as he could, but it wasn't enough. Many times over the years he wondered what would have made it better, and in his mind's eye, he saw himself holding her to his chest...then his body absorbing hers as a sponge absorbs water. That always confused him, and for a time he thought that he needed to _possess_ her, but that didn't make any sense.

Did he want to kill her?

He entertained that thought a great deal during his time in prison, remembered the soft, pillowy feeling of her throat under his hands, the panic filling her hazel eyes. The idea of killing her did not arouse him, but choking her and staring into her upturned face did, and it was only after years of therapy that he forced himself to stop masturbating to it. _You're keeping an old wound open by thinking about it,_ the psychiatrist told him, _you can never heal if you don't let it scab._

Sitting on his bed now, it was suddenly clear to him that that was _exactly_ what he did...only the scab was coming off and that festering wound was opening once more, vulnerable, exposed, becoming infected.

He could save himself, though; it wouldn't be easy, but he could pull back from the brink. He _had_ to.

If not for him, then for his mother. He put her through enough already, she didn't deserve anymore heartache.

She deserved a _good_ son.

Unlike him.


	6. Into the Fire

**Shadowmaster91: I disagree. I didn't, as I recall, mention her being a child genius with a fully functional laboratory in her room at four. If I had (or did, I honestly can't recall, lol), then you're absolutely right. Having her being a genius and working for NASA as an adult (or whatever I have her doing) is believable, in my opinion.**

 **Guest: I honestly don't know what those urges are like, but I doubt they're usually as strong as what Lincoln feels. I did that to increase the drama and the rate of his mental and moral decay.**

 **Delquea: I wanted to make Chandler kind of a hypocrite...thought a hypocrite with good points. This chapter shows that a little more, I think.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Squeeze the Trigger**_ **by Ice-T (1987) and** _ **Billy Don't Be a Hero**_ **by Paper Lace (1974)**

Thursday afternoon, Chandler Briggs sat at the desk he shared with Deke Jones and absently scanned a file, reading and rereading the same lines over and over again but retaining none of it. Phones rang, papers shuffled, and the low din of a two dozen voices formed a quiet rumble like the surf on the shore, but he was deaf to all of it.

Sighing, he slapped the folder onto the desk and slouched, his head flopping back. Overhead, a wooden fan creaked as it spun slowly 'round, doing little to stir the stagnant air. Those bastards at city hall got brand new ventilation systems while the boys in blue - the ones doing the actual work - sweltered in the heat because _it's not in the budget._ Chandler wasn't a political man, but if he had to cast his lot in with a party, it would probably be the GOP...but they were so against raising taxes you'd think the entire world would end if people had to fork over a little more, and it was because of that Reagan crap that police departments across the country were undermanned and underfunded. The fat cats had theirs, though, don't you worry - they _always_ had theirs.

In all honesty, he didn't care about fans or money, his mind was firmly on Lincoln Loud, as it had been all week. The last three nights running, he parked across the street from 1216 after work and staked it out. As he suspected, Loud didn't have a routine that involved leaving the house at a set time and going to a set location, which made it hard to get a bead on him. With a working stiff who left the house everyday at seven and walked the same route, you could form a plan of action. With a jobless homebody like Loud, you couldn't. His best option would be a predawn home invasion - he didn't like that option because he'd probably have to kill Mrs. Loud too, but while he didn't want to, he would. It was her or an innocent little girl, and she _was_ harboring that bastard.

A ball of nerves formed in his stomach and acid bubbled up from his depths. He really, really didn't want to, though.

Maybe he didn't have to. He could slip in through a window, creep up the stairs, take out Loud, then slink away without making a sound; she'd never know anything was wrong until she found her pedo son dead in his bed the next morning.

The knot in his center tightened when he realized something. Loud may have told her about him. _Mommy, this scary man I went to school with named Chandler Briggs is stalking me. I'm really afraid._ If he _did,_ Chandler would naturally be the prime suspect. In his years of police work, he learned something: The secret to getting away with a crime was to never be connected to it. If he arrived at a crime scene and had absolutely nothing to go on, well, he was pretty well stuck. If someone came forward and pointed a finger at a possible perp, _that's_ where all of his energy went, and when a good cop throws everything he has at you, he's going to get results...some way, somehow. He knew all the tactics and was sure he could evade them, but all it would take is one wrong facial tick and he was done.

If he killed Lincoln Loud, he would _have_ to kill his mother too.

That didn't set entirely well with him, but..so be it. Even the most righteous of causes created collateral damage.

He didn't realize he was dozing until someone smacked his in the chest; he jerked and nearly fell back in his chair. Deke, clad in a dark suit, stood over him. "Got a tip." he said cryptically.

"About what?" Chandler asked and rolled his neck.

"Little Tony Smalls," he said, "one of his girlfriends says he's at her apartment on Sixth Street."

Chandler's heart skipped a beat. In his line of work, there were some cases you just had to give up on, and the whereabouts of Anthony Smalls appeared to be one of them. They checked every rock he was known to hide under, in every cranny he could possibly conceal himself, and talked to everyone who'd so much as passed him in traffic, but to no avail. He hated letting a bad guy slip through his fingers, and now, it looked like they had a chance to nail that bastard. "When?"

Checking his watch, Deke said, "Five minutes."

Fire ignited in Chandler's stomach; that was the hotted lead they'd ever had on the guy.

Without another word, he jumped to his feet, and he and Deke made their way through the squad room. "She said he turned up last night looking for a place to crash," Deke explained as they pushed through the doors and hung a left. The hall was long, silent, and sunlit, the only person in sight a kid in a denim jacket handcuffed to a bench, his head hung in shame. "She said he could stay but had to leave in the morning."

"He's not leaving?" Chandler asked.

"Nope," Deke said.

"Let's hope he doesn't."

"Fingers crossed," Deke replied.

Outside, blinding sunlight stung Chandler's eyes and a furnace blast of air washed over him like the heat from a roaring house fire. The Crown Vic was in its usual spot, flanked by a cruiser on one side and an empty space on the other; Chandler slid in behind the wheel and Deke climbed into the passenger seat, buckling the safety belt across his lap as Chandler threw the car into reverse and backed up. For the first time in over a week, thoughts of Lincoln Loud did not crowd his head - his entire focus was on the task ahead, his senses tingling like a bloodhound tracking an escaped convict across an Alabama bayou. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his heart raced in anticipation; it took conscious effort to keep from slamming the pedal to the floor - every moment they spent not busting Smalls was a moment he could get away.

"Sherman Arms?" he asked.

"Where else?" Deke asked rhetorically.

Sherman Arms was a section eight housing project on Sixth Street, the kind of place where men sat on the stoop at all hours with radios and bottles covered in brown paper bags. Over half of the crimes committed in Royal Woods were carried out in those four walls - drug deals, thefts, domestic violence, and the occasional gangland slaying. Two months ago, a group of Bloods from Detroit engaged in an action-movie style gun battle with a gang of Crips, chasing each other through the halls, ducking into doorways, and crouching behind garbage cans; sixteen people were involved, but only two were injured; when Chandler first heard, he secretly hoped they all did everyone a favor and killed each other, and was disappointed that they didn't.

At Pine Street, he took a sharp right, nearly hitting a man trying to cross; he jumped back and threw his arms indignantly up, an angry look flickering across his face. The crosswalk sign, Chandler noted, was flashing red, which meant STAY YOUR ASS PUT. For some reason he couldn't explain, the annoyed him to no end. Jaywalking wasn't a major crime, but it was a crime nonetheless, and dangerous too. A lot of laws were crap, but some were onto something; why didn't people get that?

Five minutes later, they pulled to the curb in front of Sherman Arms and illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant. The building was tall and broad, its brick face dark with the grime of decades. Narrow windows looked out over the street; in one, Chandler spotted a Mexican flag, and in another, an old woman's wizened face peering down, her features pinched in perpetual disapproval. You wouldn't see it in _Lethal Weapon_ or _Leg Work,_ but nosey old ladies are a cop's best friend - they're always watching, always seeing, always outraged and one minor misdeed away from picking up their phones.

Deke threw off his seatbelt and flung open the door. "Let's roll," he said and got out.

Inside, the lobby was dark and cool, like a cave; dirt coated the cracked tile floor, spray-painted graffiti covered the walls, and cobwebs danced hypnotically in dusty corners. A stairwell lead to a landing, then continued to the higher floors. Chandler looked around and spotted the elevator: A white piece of paper reading OUT OF ORDER stared back at him. Typical. "Fourth floor," Deke said, "apartment 2B."

There was a Shakespeare joke to be had in there, but Chandler was not in a joking mood: His muscles were coiled, his heartbeat slow but hard, and his stomach clenched. He called it _being in the zone,_ a state of tense hyper awareness that he entered every time he approached an unfamiliar situation in the line do duty. His instincts were sharper, his reflexes quicker, and his mind clearer, as an animal on the prowl, slinking through the brush and sighting its prey at the water hole.

Taking the lead, he started up the stairs, Deke bringing up the rear. At the landing, they met an old black woman with an overfull laundry basket in her arms. She glanced at the badge on Chandler's belt, then turned away and hurried down the stairs like an Old West villager fleeing the advance of two dueling gangs. Chandler continued up, taking the steps two at a time. On the second floor, a group of shirtless black men sat in kitchen chairs around an open door, a boombox at one's sneakered feet, rap blaring from the speakers.

 _I've been dogged out by cops, shackled and socked_

 _Paid my dues to the streets, took my hard knocks_

 _Disrespected by snobs, damn near trampled by mobs_

 _Persecuted by squares workin' nine to five jobs_

 _But like a panther I prowl, like a lion I growl_

 _Learn to see behind my back like the head of an owl_

They looked up as Deke and Chandler passed, their faces hardening with suspicion. Cops are universally hated in these types of places, or at the very least feared; after all, it wasn't all that long ago that police sicked German sheapards on civil rights protesters and covered up racist crimes in the Deep South. Because of that, many black communities were wary of law enforcement, and would rather let themselves stew in drugs, murder, and gang violence than call. Chandler was not a bleeding heart poor-pity-them liberal, but he was also not a racist, and it irritated him that the misconduct of LEOs in the past made his job harder, and _his_ streets less safe.

At the fourth floor, he pressed himself against the wall and drew his gun, then peeked around the corner; trash, cigarette butts, and empty condom wrappers littered the matted carpet. An overhead light flickered with an eerie hum and the stench of closed-up cooking odor pinched his nose. He glanced at Deke, who stood two stair treads down, his gun in his hands. Chandler nodded, and Deke nodded back.

Taking a deep breath, Chandler ducked around the corner and started down the hall at a half-crouch, his senses keen and his eyes oscillating from side to side. 2H on the right, 2E on the left. Deke followed behind at his full height, his stride easy and a bemused smile on his lips, as though he thought his partner was the biggest dork on the planet.

Which he did.

But in a good way.

When he reached 2B, Chandler took up position on the right and Deke on the left: Someone peering through the fisheye lens wouldn't be able to see them, which was the point. Chandler's acutely attuned ears detected muffled voices from beyond, sounded like an argument. " _...no good nigga."_

" _Fuck you, ho."_

Chandler heart clinched and watery neves knotted in the pit of his stomach. Smalls was still here - they were _this_ close to grabbing him, so close he could taste it. He looked at Deke, who nodded that he was ready, then balled his fist and knocked - not like a cop with a warrant, but like a friendly neighbor lady baring a tray of cookies instead of handcuffs.

The voices ceased.

" _Who's that?"_ A man's voice, sharp with distrust. That was probably him. Chandler called up a vision of his face: Narrow, sunken, eyes seething with hatred, hair wild and stuck up like a ghetto scarecrow.

A woman's voice replied; the girlfriend. " _Probably the landlord comin' to tell yo ass stop yellin'."_

Footsteps approached, and Chandler's body stiffened. Deke braced his feet against the floor and rolled his neck, limbering up for the confrontation. The world slowed, and for a moment the only sound was the thundering beat of Chandler's own heart reverberating through the chambers of his head. His breaths came quick and shallow, his heartbeat slowed to a crawl, and his body coiled like a spring read to snap.

The doorknob rattled and turned; the door opened; the woman stepped quickly aside to give them a clear path. Something inside Chandler popped like a starting gun, and he went in, low and fast, the gun swinging up before him, adrenaline surging through him.

A brief hall led to the back of the apartment. A kitchen opened off on one side and a living room off the other. Smalls stood in the middle, clad in jeans and a wife beater that revealed his scrawny chicken arms; a thin, splotchy beard spread across the bottom of his face, and his hair put Chandler in mind of one of Charlotte's troll dolls. Their eyes met, and for a millisecond, no one moved...then Smalls broke and ran down the hall.

Chandler came alive with a jolt. "Freeze!" he cried.

Smalls ducked into a door on his left and slammed it behind him. Chandler gave chase, his heart exploding now - he was going for a gun, had to be, and Chandler had to stop him before he came out shooting because if he came out shooting, either he or Deke might catch a bullet.

At the door, Chandler rammed it with his shoulder and it flew open with a crack of breaking wood. The window was open, the curtains fluttering in the wind; Chandler caught a flash of black as Smalls disappeared down the fire escape, and his stomach dropped.

He was getting away.

"He's going down the fire escape!" he called to Deke. "Head him off!"

Without waiting for a response, he threw himself at the window and leaned out, a rickety and rusted metal framework zigzagged down the side of the building, the street busy below. It shook and rattled under Smalls' weight.

Chandler climbed over the sill, landed on the platform, and started after, the staging swaying sickeningly.

"Freeze!" he called again as he pounded down a set of steps and followed another platform. Below, Smalls threw a jerky glance over his shoulder and went faster.

Two floors from the ground, the black man splayed his hands on the railing and leapt over the side, his knees touching his chest. Chandler came to a skitting halt and looked down just as he landed feet first on the sidewalk with only a stumble.

Shit, he was getting away.

Growling in frustration, Chandler went down the final flight of stairs, reaching it just as a gunshot rang out, shattering the day and sending his heart crashing into the pit of his stomach. A chorus of frightened screams went up, and people fled up and down the sidewalk. For a moment he was frozen, then he slammed back into drive, jumping onto the plastic lid of a dumpster, then onto the ground. When he saw a figure lying on the pavement ahead, he started...when he saw who it was, an electric ripple of horror went through his center.

Heart pounding in fear, he ran over to Deke and dropped to his knees. His partner was supine, his arms thrown out on either side like angel wings. His closed eyelids fluttered, and blood flowed openly from a tiny hole in his forehead, more spreading out from underneath in a macabre halo. His dark skin paled before Chandler's eyes, and panic gripped him in a cold, steely hand.

For a moment, he was frozen, his eyes wide and his jaw slack, his mind suddenly blank. He was trained to deal with situations like this, and always imagined he could handle them when they came, but here, now, with his partner, his best friend, sprawled on the ground, his life seeping from his head, he choked, everything he'd ever learned rushing away from him like the tide before the advent of a devastating tsunami.

Looking up, he caught a flash of Smalls disappearing into the crowd, a 9mm in his hand. His every instinct told him to get up and give chase, to run him down, exact revenge and blow him away when he was close enough.

Instead, he stayed with his partner. Shaking all over, the adrenaline draining from his body and leaving him cold, he pulled his radio out. "1015, officer down, Sherman Arms, repeat, officer down!" His lips were numb and the words came in a broken croak. His head spun, his vision grayed; he was dizzy, quivering, fear bursting against his chest and ice dropping into his roiling stomach.

Tossing the radio aside, he leaned over Deke and felt along his neck for a pulse; it was there, but fading fast. "Hang with me," he said, "help is on the way, alright? Stay with me."

People were beginning to crowd around, their expressions ranging from horror to cool indifference. None came close, though; Chandler was alone, and for the first time since joining the police force sixteen years ago, he felt the overwhelming sense of being in over his head. "Stay with me," he repeated.

Sirens wailed in the distance, swelling as they got closer.

It was too late, though.

Deke Jones was dead before the ambulance even arrived.

* * *

Late Thursday afternoon, Lincoln Loud sat anxiously in the waiting room off the lobby of Royal Woods General, his elbows propped on his knees and his thumb to his lips, his teeth worrying the nail. Ringing phones, beeping, staticky voices crackling over the intercom, and the cloying stench of disinfectant clogged the stagnant air, setting Lincoln's nerves more on edge than they already were. He glanced up when someone passed, hoping it was a doctor with news, but it was only an orderly in white pushing an empty wheelchair, his face set in a sour glare. Lincoln darted his eyes to TV mounted in a corner; a female anchor sat before the Channel 6 logo and read the day's news. A picture of a black man appeared to the right of her head over the caption COP SLAIN. The volume was too low to hear.

Sighing, Lincoln looked down at his feet and went back to chewing his nail, his stomach sick with worry. It was taking too long; someone should have come to him by now. He checked his watch and pursed his lips. 6:45. Three hours since a nurse directed him to the chair in which he currently sat, three hours since a group of doctors rushed his mother through a set of double doors, leaving him alone, small, and afraid. Three hours.

It happened shortly after three. He was sitting in the living room and staring blankly at the TV, his thoughts in turmoil, when a loud crash sounded from the kitchen and the floor shook. He jumped up and ran in, his heart throbbing with fear, and found Mom lying on her side near the stove, her body convulsing and her feet kicking spasmodically like the paws of a dog trapped in a nightmare. _Mom!_ He cried and streaked to her side, tears of horror springing to his eyes. When he saw her face, his blood ran cold: One side of it drooped like pallid dough, a long, breathy moan trembling from her blue lips.

For fifteen years, Lincoln lived in constant fear of being beaten up or raped, but never in his life had he been more terrified than he was as he knelt over his seizing mother.

He didn't remember calling 911, didn't even remember riding in the back of the ambulance as a team of paramedics worked frantically over her. His brain stopped and shut out the awful events in an act of self-preservation. It only started working again when he was here, in the hospital, so lost and alone that he openly wept into his hands.

At first, there were others in the waiting room - an old woman, a black man in a black cap and a blue work shirt, a teenage girl with braces, and, at some point, a little girl about five with pale blonde hair and narrow, haughty eyes that seemed to disdainfully scan the world...and found it beneath her. Normally, Lincoln would have found her queenly self-superiority captivating...would have fantasized about worshipping at her pink tipped feet...but today he simply looked away, his fire a cold bed of embers, his thoughts firmly on his mother and whether or not she would be okay. Now, he was alone save for the TV and the lamp - warm, muted light bathed the green industrial carpet and made faint shadows on the wall. Lincoln stared at them the way a young boy might stare at a darkened closet, ware and guarded, ready to run screaming to mommy the moment a monster emerged from the gloom.

Only mommy wasn't here. She was somewhere else, possible even the morgue.

That thought sent a chunk of ice into his stomach, and he hugged himself tightly against the chill, but it was within, not without, and his teeth began to chatter.

Mom _couldn't_ be dead. He needed her. If she died, he didn't know what he'd do. He'd be cast adrift with no one to love and take care of him. His sisters didn't love him, the whole town hated his guts, no one cared if he lived or not (unless they wanted him to not), and he had nothing to his name but bad memories, anxiety, and dark desires that wouldn't leave him alone.

He blinked when he realized that adult or not...he couldn't live without his mother. He was thirty-five and had never lived on his own, never filed taxes, never cooked for himself, and though he was most certainly _not_ afraid of the dark, the thought of the house waiting for him even now, empty and festering with shadows, stirred dread in his soul. He saw himself sitting in the living room, every light on and the TV blaring to hold the isolation at bay, and an iron band wrapped painfully around his lungs, squeezing the air out like Bengay from a flattened tube. Even if Mom was okay, they probably wouldn't let her go yet, so that meant he'd have to pass at least _one_ night on his own.

It occurred to him that he would have to call Lori and the others. A spark of hope kindled in his chest - maybe Lori would drive up and stay with him for a day or two. She said something about having a ton of sick and vacation days accumulated, didn't she? She could could take off for a little and keep him company. God, he needed someone, he couldn't be by himself; if he was, he'd go crazy. And...

For the first time since hearing his mother fall, he thought of the girl next door.

He swallowed hard and raked his hands through his hair. If he was alone, he might do something to her...he might hurt his mother by doing something very bad.

Again.

He glanced up when a doctor walked past, then his spirits sank when he kept going, eyes forward, steps quick and sharp; to him, Lincoln Loud did not exist, and his woe was simply another tree in a forest. They were like prison guards, when you got down to it - they saw the worst of the worst day in and day out to the point they grew numb to it. A prison guard can march a man who raped, killed, and cannibalized his entire family down the hall like nothing, and a doctor can rummage through the shattered insides of a human cranium, then break, pull off their gloves, and go have lunch. The hate, the pain, and the misery that occurred around them became background noise after a while, and they could look grief or evil right in the eyes without even registering it.

Lincoln shivered.

The more he sat here, the more alone and nervous he felt, his chest closing like a fist and his stomach rocking as a ship at sea. He got up, no destination in mind, and wandered into the lobby proper; a woman with permed hair and big shoulder pads sat behind the desk, pecking hesitantly at a word processor, the handset of a phone wedged in the crook of her neck. Outside, soft purple dusk lay across the world like a blanket; an orange and white ambulance pulled to the curb, and a security guard walked back and forth along the walkway, a restless spirit on an endless flight.

A Coke machine sat in a little alcove next to a payphone. Lincoln fished in his pocket, found a quarter, and went over, swallowing thickly as he scanned the selections before dropping is coin into the slot and pressing one of the buttons. Inexplicable vertigo broke over him like a wave, and his knees buckled; he leaned against the machine and held himself up, stinging tears welling from seemingly nowhere and spilling down his cheeks in salty rivers.

He wanted his mother, wanted her so bad he ached. He remembered curling up in her lap as a little boy and her wrapping her loving arms around him, sheltering him, warm and safe, loved, where nothing could hurt him. In that instant, he missed those protecting embraces with a keen edge that cut through his center like a knife. The stark realization that he might never see her again struck him full-force, and a strangled sob escaped his throat. He turned away from the machine and pressed his slick cheek to its glowing face. The woman behind the desk spoke impatiently into the phone, her hands flying across the keyboard. She saw weeping and gnashing of teeth daily; to her, it meant nothing. _He_ meant nothing. He meant nothing to anyone except for Mom.

She couldn't die.

And if she did, _he_ might as well die right along with her. An image flashed across his mind. An infant swaddled in a white blanket and lying on the floor of a dark, forbidding forest, thrashing and wailing for a mother that would never come while hungry wolves circled it.

That was him.

Small. Defenseless. Dependent.

And he _hated_ himself for it.

He sniffed deeply and closed his eyes tight against the tears, willing himself to hold together; Mom was going to be fine, and she needed him to be strong for her the way she was always strong for him. This was his chance to repay her for all she'd done over the years - she put up with so much and, unlike everyone else in the world, she kept on loving him. If he went to pieces now, he couldn't do the same. How could he live with himself knowing that he let her down when she needed him most?

Perking up a little, he pushed away from the machine and caught his runaway breathing. Mom always put him first...now it was his turn to put _her_ first, and the first step was getting a grip. He drew a slow, even breath and let it out through his nose, a little of the pressing weight falling from his chest. If he kept his mind on being strong for Mom, he could get through this.

For her.

A little calmer now, he reached into the dispenser, grabbed his Coke, and went back to the waiting room where he sat. In his absence, an elderly Hispanic couple took up residence across from him, the man holding an ice pack to his head and looking dazed while the woman scolded him in rapid-fire Spanish. Wives nagged in _all_ languages, apparently; Lincoln smiled wanly to himself and looked down at his lap.

Sometime later, after the couple went off to whatever fate, Lincoln was roused from a fitful doze by a soft voice. He snapped awake, his neck stiff, and looked up to find a man in pale green scrubs standing by his elbow, a green cap covering the top of his head and a white face mask hanging around his neck. Lincoln's stomach panged and he sat up straighter.

"Mr. Loud, I'm Dr. Nash," the doctor said with a curt nod. "I'm the neurologist here, and I've been working with your mother. It _looks_ like she's going to be okay but right now we really can't tell."

Neurologist? Lincoln frantically flipped through his mental Rolodex but couldn't remember exactly what a neurologist specialized in. It sounded serious, though. "H-How is she?" he asked weakly. "What happened?"

"Your mother suffered what is called an Ischemic stroke," Dr. Nash explained. At the word _stroke,_ Lincoln's chest crushed. "Those occur when a clot forms in a vessel supplying blood to the brain. Luckily, it was caught early enough that there shouldn't be any severe neurological damage, though your mother _will_ most likely be impacted physically. Right now, she is partially paralyzed on the left side of her body. Whether or not this is permanent remains to be seen."

Lincoln processed those words and their ramifications for a long time before replying. "Can I see her?"

Ten minutes later, he stood over his mother's bedside, his hands curling around the metal rail. Mom, always larger than life, seemed impossibly small and frail under the thin hospital blanket, her body sunken and shriveled. The left side of her face dropped like melted candle wax, one corner of her mouth turned sharply down. A host of machines and monitors whose functions Lincoln couldn't even begin to guess flanked either side of the bed, a confusion of wires and tubes running from her arms like strings to a puppet. Her chest rose and slowly fell, her eyelids fluttering in her chemically-induced slumber.

Keeping himself from breaking down was the hardest thing Lincoln had ever done, but he did it...for her sake. He reached out to touch her face, but drew his hand back, afraid of hurting her even more. He tried to think of something to say, some word of love and encouragement, but nothing came, so he simply watched her, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

At one point, a nurse poked her head into the room to say that visiting hours were over, and Lincoln nodded, loathe to leave his mother's side and return to the dark, tomb-silent house on Franklin Avenue but having no choice. He was a grown man and he needed to start acting like it. "I love you," he said, his lips trembling. "A-And everything's going to be okay. I promise."

He lingered a moment, then left, his head hung. Somehow he wound up outside with no recollection of how he got there; a warm breeze blew from the west, and the hazy summer moon sat high in the night, its pale luminescence painting the heavens. Lincoln stared up at it, transfixed the way a werewolf or a madman might be, searching its bare, skeletal face for hidden wonders or dark comfort but finding only cold indifference.

Looking away, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started home, his head down and his shoulders hunched; he walked slowly, delaying the inevitable, stretching the minutes out, dread building in his stomach like steam in a boiler; three miles off, 1216 stood dark and forlorn, haunted by specters of the past as surely as he was haunted by specters of his own deviance. Once he stepped through the threshold, he would be at their mercy.

And the girl would be only feet away.

Lincoln sneered at his feet and balled fists. He didn't even know her name - isn't that funny? She was such a huge part of his life, the bane of his existence, even, and she remained just _the girl,_ a mystical being whose sole purpose was to torment him and lead him back into the the maw of hell.

He wouldn't let it happen.

Not this time.

Turning onto Main Street, he followed the sidewalk past a rush of shuttered storefronts, headlights from the occasional passing car washing over him like search lamps, his heart staggering in primal fear every time. He drew as deep into the shadows as he could, a creature of concupiscence scurrying through the night, lead by its dark hunger and its corrupted instincts. He met only a few people as he made his way past town square, and it was only then that he realized just how vulnerable he was without his mother; any of them could recognize him and attack, and he would be completely unprotected, a boy in a city of vampires with no cross or holy water.

On Pine Street, arch sodium lights cast harsh orange pools on the pavement; bugs danced and whirled around them like pagan revelers 'round a bonfire, some tapping against the glass with kamikaze abandon. Ranch homes on parcel lots lined the way, blue TV glow flickering in darkened front windows. He kept his gaze away as he passed; if he looked too long, he would hate those houses and the people in them. They didn't have to live with the burden of infernal lust on their shoulders; their every day wasn't an epic struggle; they weren't aligned against themselves like two opposing armies, one half wanting peace and the other wanting war. They were lucky, and Lincoln wanted what they had so much it made him sick.

A dog barked in the distance, and someone's baby cried; a chill ran down his spine and he wished that the sun would shine, wished that he was in one of those houses, one of of those lives, an average man with an average life who worked from nine to five, had kids and a wife and maybe even a dog. Instead he was a monster, cursed to forever be an outsider among those who are men, a ghoul, an aberration, an object of revulsion and the subject of whispered warnings and wives tales. _Don't go out at night or The Pedophile might get you._

He barked a harsh and cracking laugh when it crossed his mind that he was the bogeyman, the kind of shunned abomination parents told their children about in hushed tones, the proverbial man with a pocket full of candy and a lost puppy he _really_ needed help finding. He didn't want this for himself, but does anyone ever? No child envisions themselves molesting children, dealing drugs, strangling women, or running a fascist dictatorship as adults - they want to be firemen, cops, doctors, vets, actors, or singers. Things have a funny thing of working out, though.

His mind went once more to the girl. What did _she_ want from life? What future did she imagine as she lay prone in bed, her face in her hands and her feet kicking back and forth? Did she see herself as a pop star? A journalist? Whatever her goals Lincoln thought, she would probably never attain them; she'd most likely wind up living in a rundown single-wide with six kids and an alcoholic husband. An image of her face ran across his mind's eye - she was riding her bike, bent over the handlebars, her face set in determination, her brow pinched and her eyes sparkling, an elfin smile playing at the corners of her closed lips. She had high hopes and big dreams...and Lincoln hoped they crashed down around her.

The bitch deserved it for what she was doing to him.

But though he hated her, he found himself still wanting to drown her face in urgent kisses, starting with the tip of her button nose and spreading out - her cheeks, her jaw, the side of her neck. If she wore her skirt, he could hike it up around her hips, pull her panties down, and mount her, his shaft sinking slowly into her virgin passage, spreading her sticky walls apart with the sweet sting of defloration. She stared up at him with dull apathy in her eyes, simply tolerating the penetration but not really enjoying it...though not hating it, either.

Lincoln licked his chops like a hungry dog as he turned onto Franklin; here the lamps gave way to starlight, the world silence save for the chirping of crickets and the gentle roar of the wind slipping through the trees.

She was on her knees now, tears streaming down her face. She took him in her mouth, wavered, then jerked roughly down, sheathing him between her cheeks, her unwilling tongue and reluctant lips making clumsy and unenthusiastic love to his pulsing shaft. She moved slowly back, then forward, gagging and choking on sobs and precum. Growling, Lincoln grabbed a handful of her hair and began to thrust his hips. When his end approached, he pulled out and splattered her face with his load; it dripped down her features and onto the front of her blouse in fat white droplets like rain in hell. She hung her head in shame and humiliation, then broke down crying, her shoulders shaking and her high, hitching moans like music to Lincoln's addled ears.

He came to a shuffling stop, his heart slamming so hard the corners of his vision tinged with gray. His rigid dick painfully pushed out the front of his pants and throbbed in time with the pounding in his temples. He swallowed hard and clenched his eyes closed like a boy lying in bed and trying to convince himself that monsters aren't real. He took a deep breath, but it did little to dispel the pressure bearing down on his aching chest.

Mom needed him.

But...God help him...he needed the girl.

And unless he exerted every ounce of energy he had...he was going to take her.

* * *

Chandler Briggs lifted the bottle to his lips and took a deep pull, the amber liquid within burning the back of his throat and exploding in his stomach like a bomb. Tears sprang to his eyes and he gagged, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and blinked, his breathing ragged.

It was past 10 0 clock, and he sat in his armchair, the only light coming from the TV, where happy patrons of a bar where everyone knows you name laughed and joked without a care in the world. Something about their light jocular interplay struck Chandler as grotesque...as though they were mocking him, parading their normalcy like a tease parading her ass. _Look at us. We're just the gayest bunch that ever was. We laugh, we hug, we fight but we always make up. How was_ your _day?_

If he was wearing his gun, he'd have shot the motherfuckers already, but he wasn't, it was in the closet, along with his badge, both under lock and key like cursed relics in a museum of the damned.

An image of Deke's face flashed across his mind, pale and streaked with blood, his eyelids fluttering like a dreamer in the REM cycle, his brain powering down as his nerve endings died one-by-one, synapses misfiring and going dark like dominoes falling in a line. Chandler's throat grew tight as he tried to imagine what his friend saw in his final moments - Heaven? Hell? The darkness of nothing-at-all? Chandler was not a timid man nor was he one to nurse irrational fears, but the uncertainty of death had always disquieted him. Was Deke conscious enough to know what was happening to him? To know that he was dying and that he'd never see his wife and daughter again? Did panic grip him as his lungs stopped working, depriving his injured brain oxygen? Or was he numb to it all?

Those thoughts and others battered Chandler like summer hail as he wandered aimlessly through the rest of his day, first to the hospital, then to the station where Captain Reynolds placed him on administrative leave - standard procedure when a cop kills someone or has their partner shot out from beside them - then, finally, home. It was in excess of ninety degrees that day, but he was cold, a deep, teeth-chattering freeze that emanated from the core of his very bones and blew through his body like an icy wind. His head felt funny, like it was wrapped in wool, and his hands trembled on the wheel. At one point on the way home, he had to pull to the side of the road to let the shakes pass. All he could think about at first was his friend dying on a dirty sidewalk like a dog, and prayed to God for it to stop, and in His infinite compassion, the Lord made it so, replacing them instead with, thoughts of Jeanette Jones sobbing and collapsing into his arms at the hospital when he told her Deke was dead. Kira was there too, but she was too young to fully grasp that her daddy wasn't coming home - no more tea parties, no more bedtime stories, no more anything.

All because of Anthony Smalls.

Seething hatred swept Chandlers soul, and his grip on the bottle tightened, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a dog-like sneer. That son of a bitch shouldn't have been on the streets to begin with, but he was. Ronald Reagan talked a big game but he was a fucking pussy just like the rest of them - letting scumbags out of their cells to rape little girls and kill decent, hard working fathers. That's this country's problem. Long ago we took justice seriously; we didn't put monsters like The Night Stalker on trial and let him smile for the cameras, we dragged them out of the jailhouse and strung them up by their necks.

We've gone soft. Too fucking soft. And all the liberals wonder why Los Angeles and New York City are steeped in crime. You can't even walk down the fucking street without being raped, mugged, or murdered. Land of the free and home of the brave my fucking ass. A good man was dead and a little girl no longer had a father because our government doesn't give a shit about us. Reagan, Bush, and all the other bastards on Capitol Hill have armed security details, high fences, and fucking Rottweilers for as far as the eye can see, _they_ don't have to worry, _they_ didn't have to mingle with the killers and child molesters, _they_ didn't have to watch their friends and loved ones suffer at the hands of criminals.

But _we_ do.

He took another drink, fueling the black rage forming in the pit of his stomach. His head spun and his throbbing heart burst a sickly beat; he curled his right hand against the armrest and bared his teeth, his shoulders rising and falling and his nostrils flaring, lending him the appearance of an angry, pinched-faced gorilla.

Not that long ago, he believed that some criminals could be rehabilitated, and maybe he still did...but risking innocent lives wasn't worth it. He watched his best friend gunned down in the street and then watched as his wife held their daughter to her breast and wept disconsolately, saw the toll a dirtball could take on a family, saw, for a brief second, his own wife and daughter, red-eyed and frozen in mourning.

They can let those sons of bitches out on our streets, he came to realize over the course of that bleak afternoon, but we don't have to take it.

We can fight back.

He finished the bottle. He was numb with inebriation, his brain muddled, thoughts coming awkward and cumbersome.

Out there, beyond the walls of his home, where his family was, the night teemed with bloodletters and badmen - wife beaters, serial killers, gangsters, jaywalkers, drug addicts, hookers, panhandlers, one and all a scourge on society, a cancer eating away at the very fabric of American values. The affliction of evil has always been there, a damning red thread weaving through human history from the first men to walk upright to the present time, but we _fought_ it. Good men rode hard on desert plains against cattle rustlers; heroes lashed villains to stakes and lit a match; morals and principles were held aloft and celebrated. Somewhere along the way, we stopped chemo and let the disease metastasis. We have one body, and it was riddled with pestilence. People went soft, they gathered with their picket signs and their bleeding hearts, they fought to open all the cages and let all the rabid dogs run free NOW LOOK AT US! We're fucking _consumed_ with crime. You see it on the news every night, see it in your streets, and still you rally for the murderers and rapists. What if it was _your_ daughter fucked by a piece of shit by a river? What if it was _your_ son or father or brother blown away by a worthless leech? You wouldn't stand so firm on the side of "compassion" then.

He reached between his legs for the bottle, remembered it was gone, and balled his hands in his lap instead. On TV, Sam and Norm traded barbs, and how the canned audience _laughed_. The world was burning down around them and the hounds of hell roved through the streets, snatching babes from their beds and ripping them asunder, but they were blind to it; they didn't care. _Hahahahahahahahahahaha,_ Ted Danson made a funny. Watch, consume, conform, obey, stay asleep, America, stay asleep, focus on the left hand so you don't see the right hand strangling everything that is good and pure.

There was a poem Chandler remembered from school, and as he stared at the hypnotic, idiocy-inducing glow of the TV, it rose from the depths of his bleary mind like a body from the deep, finally freed from the concrete shoes that once held it down. _Things fall apart. The center cannot hold._ Apt. Very, very, _very_ fucking apt. The bottom was dropping out and they pumped radio waves into our heads to dull us, condition us, techno nepenthe to numb our senses.

But we don't have to fucking take it. We don't. We can stop this; we're Americans, this ain't how Americans act. Americans are strong, courageous, and upstanding. They don't let the villain win; Superman always comes out on top, and the bad guy of the week always takes a fall. Good triumphs over evil, but only if good actually fucking _does something._

Lincoln Loud appeared in his head, fuzzy and obscure through a fog of drunkenness, and Chandler's heart burst.

 _Him._ The child molester. The rapist. The one man who so perfectly symbolized what was wrong with America that he might as well have been _made_ for it, created by a devil god not of dirt and dust but of scum and muck. How can anyone think that a man like him would ever be cured? He wasn't; Chandler saw him that day, staring intently at that little girl. Someone's daughter. Someone's sister. To someone, she was a princess and the light of life - to Lincoln Loud she was an object to sate his pervert greed.

Chandler reached for the bottle, but it wasn't there; the room twisted, and when he tried to get up to find it, his knees gave out and he saved himself only by slapping his hands against the armrest.

Fuck Lincoln Loud. Son of a bitch didn't deserve to live. He was a feral fucking dog and if he wasn't put down soon, he'd maul someone, maul them so fucking bad they'd spend the rest of their life crisscrossed with scars just like the Myers girl.

That wasn't gonna happen. Reagan and the rest of them might not give a fuck about the people, but Chandler Briggs did. The buck stops _here_.

Pushing himself up, he let go of the chair and held his arms out to steady himself. When he was sure he wasn't going to tumble, he shambled headlong through the living room and into the hall, his fingers trailing along the wall for balance. Ahead, the bedroom door was open and faint lamplight spilled forth. Jordan lay on her side under the covers, her knees drawn to her chest. Chandler leaned against the doorframe, blinking the blur from his eyes and trying to ascertain if she was asleep or not; she'd be mad at him if she knew what he was going to do so he had to be real quiet, like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits.

Her back lifted and fell with the rhythm of her breathing.

Swallowing, he shoved away and staggered to the closet. He opened it, froze when the metal track squeaked, and threw a worried glance over his shoulder.

She slept on.

Turning back, he slid the door the rest of the way open, then reached for the case on the shelf. He started to fall forward, but shot out his hand and gripped the frame, his heels leaving the floor and his toes taking most of his weight.

Silently, he took down the case and crept out of the room, watching Jordan over his shoulder. Clear, he went through the house like a cat burglar, then out the front door, leaving the TV on.

A cool wind caressed his sweaty face, and an orchestra of night sounds found his ears. The houses up and down the block were dark, nary a soul stirring in the street. He went to the Crown Vic, stumbling here and there, and fell in behind the wheel, half in and half out. He tittered and swung his legs into the footwell; drunk driving was against the law, which made him a criminal.

But it was okay.

Most laws are arbitrary anyway. Justice is not.

He tossed the case onto the passenger seat, pulled the door closed, and started the engine, the headlight winking on and splashing across the front of the garage. The glare momentarily blinded him and he blinked; dizziness came over him and his stomach rushed into his throat. He clamped his mouth closed and bent over the wheel.

The vomit didn't come, and after his gord lowered, he threw the car into reverse and backed into the street, the back tire clipping a corner of the lawn and the mailbox scraping along the passenger side with a shriek of metal-on-metal. He angled across the sidewalk, the frame jolting, then put it into drive. At the intersection, he ran ran a stop sign.

At some point, his ears detected the soft whisper of ghostly voices, and he looked warily over his shoulder, his hands jerking the wheel and car swerving. Nothing. Huh.

He realized then that it was the radio, and he tried to turn it off but turned it up instead, the barrage of sound hammering his skull and making him wince. He felt the car drifting, and looked up just in time to avoid a line of trash cans at the curb.

" _WKBBL with you all night long here on 105.9 FM, your hometown oldies station."_

Chandler rubbed his grainy eyes with his thumbs and realized he had no idea where the hell he was; everything looked the same and the night was _forever._

Drumming and whistling filtered through the speakers, sending an icepick of pain into the center of his head. He blinked and slowed, scanning the left side of the road for street signs. When he saw one for Market, he cut a sharp turn, the back tire thumping over the curb.

 _The marching band came down along Main Street_

 _The soldier blues fell in behind_

 _I looked across and there I saw Billy_

 _Waiting to go and join the line_

He knew where he was now. He tightened his hands on the wheel and leaned forward, his face hard, his eyes glinting coldly. In the ghostly green dash glow, his was the countenance of a vengeful spirit on a wanton mission of aimless retribution. His senses started to sharpen, the mist in his mind to clear but only slightly. He was entering the zone.

 _Billy, don't be a hero_

 _Don't be a fool with your life_

 _Billy, don't be a hero_

 _Come back and make me your wife_

At Main, he turned right, then left onto Franklin, driving over the curb and grazing a blue mail drop box. The Loud house was ahead on the left - he could find it with his eyes closed from here. Hopefully he wasn't too late; he'd never forgive himself if he let that sick bastard hurt that little girl.

 _The soldier blues were trapped on a hillside_

 _The battle ragin' all around_

 _The sergeant cried "We've gotta hang on, boys_

 _We gotta hold this piece of ground_

 _I need a volunteer to ride out_

 _And bring us back some extra men"_

Chandler pulled to the curb across from 1216 and put the car in park; no lights shone save for the moon and the stars, and nothing moved - it would be easy to mistake the neighborhood for abandoned, all the people dead in a plague and rotting in their beds.

He reached for the case, dragged it into his lap, and felt in his pockets for his keys.

 _She said: "Billy, don't be a hero_

 _Don't be a fool with your life"_

 _Billy don't be a hero_

 _Come back and make me your wife"_

 _And as Billy started to go, she said_

 _"Keep your pretty head low'_

 _Billy, don't be a hero_

 _Come back to me"_

Where the fuck were they? He looked around; they dangled from the ignition. He yanked them out, killing the music, and flipped through them, holding them close to his face and squinting through the haze. When he had the right one, he tried to insert it into the lock, but jabbed the case instead. He tried again, and again missed.

Holding his hand as steady as he could, he shoved the key in like an uncertain virgin and turned it, the lid popping open. A stray shaft of moonlight danced upon the sleek frame of the Glock as though it were inky water. Chandler stared at it for a long moment the way a boy might stare at an ancient and powerful relic, eyes wide and breath bated, and in that time, the gravity of his undertaking penetrated the fog in his mind.

He was going to murder two people.

One of whom was innocent.

His resolve wavered...then he thought of his daughter, and of the little girl Loud was stalking.

And that decided him.

He took the gun out.


	7. Night Moves

_**You're looking kinda lonely girl  
Would you like someone new to talk to?  
I'm feeling kinda lonely too  
If you don't mind can I sit down here beside you**_

 **Dr. Hook (Sharing the Night Together, 1978)**

* * *

Lincoln sat in front of the TV, his hands in his lap and his chest throbbing like an abscessed tooth. When he got home, he turned all the lights on, but something about lit, empty rooms seemed _wrong_ so he switched them off again, plunging the house into darkness. Even having the television on felt strange; he didn't want to be entirely alone, so he ignored the eerie sensation but compromised by turning the volume as low as it would go and still be audible. On the screen, the ABC Thursday Night Movie showed watched but unregistered, the actors playing to an apathetic and preoccupied audience of one. He tired to lose himself in the lavish sets and meandering story, but the girl dragged him back kicking and screaming, a mischievous little smirk on her lips and wicked fire smoldering in her eyes. _Come play with me, Lincy, you know you want to_.

He did, God, he did; he'd never wanted a specific girl more. During the winter of 1972, when his lust was at its highest, he had no one person to train it on, it dispersed in shafts between every girl he met like light through a prism. Now, fifteen years later, he had _her,_ a single object to beam his lust and hatred into. He stole a furtive glance over his shoulder, as though he'd be able to see her through the walls and night separating them, and wondered what she was doing. Taking a bath, maybe, her firm, young body covered in dripping suds; or maybe she was playing with herself under the covers, petting and fondling her pink core until her toes curled and her face burned. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Sharp anger cut through him and he sucked a shivery breath through his nose, trying to calm himself but in vain. That little slut was doing this on purpose; she _knew_ he couldn't control his urges. He didn't know how, and as his passion grew, he didn't care. She was intentionally trying to make him fall - everything she did, from strutting past him to riding her bike up and down the sidewalk was deliberately done with the end goal of him grabbing her by the arm, throwing her to the ground, and savaging her.

And the most tragic thing about it was this: She would like it...but she'd tell anyway; girls and women were teases and temptresses, and _lived_ to wreak mayhem in the lives of hapless men. If he forced her to the ground, wedged his knees between her thighs, and slammed into her, she would pant, moan, scream, and cry in exactly, then the moment he turned his back, she would slink off to her parents with false tears in her eyes. _Mommy, Daddy, the bad man next door did dirty things to me._ Behind her mask of white-faced anguish, she would _smile._

Evilly.

She was beautiful, though, her eyes bright, her freckled face smooth and girlish, her neck kissable and her tiny breast buds just enough to fill his palm. She'd gasp into his mouth when he tweaked her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, her working tongue pausing as sensations spread through her body, then moan when he wrapped his lips around it and brushed it with his teeth. If he bit down, she'd yelp and arch her back in erotic pain, and maybe beg him to stop, which would only urge him on. He would dig his nails into her shoulders, shove her back, and climb on top of her, then…

God, he wished Mom was here, wished anyone was here; company would push the thoughts back and keep him in check, which is why when he got home, he called all of his sisters and told them about her stroke, stretching each conversation out as long as he could to occupy his time. He knew with dread certainty, though, that he would eventually reach the end of the line and be alone with his demons again, and when he hung up with Lily, he was, and before long, they began whispering to him, giving him dark advice, begging him to do terrible things.

They wouldn't hold sway for long; Lori was driving up in the morning, so he only had a few hours to wait. Surely he could make it through one night.

Or could he? The girl ravaged his mind, nesting in the folds of his brain like a flesh-eating parasite. She massaged his frontal lobe and transferred awful visions to him as if by magic. Now she was unconscious, her body jerking limply as he fucked her - maybe she was dead, maybe she wasn't, he didn't know, and that excited him so much he squirmed.

Presently, he shook his head and pressed his hands to his temples, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth grinding roughly together. Visions of her naked and sobbing danced mockingly through his mind, her hands tied behind her back her, her body folded and her ankles touching her ears. Through her tears, he saw wicked delight - she was calling him to dash himself upon her rocks and HE WAS LISTENING.

Making a fist with his right hand, he rammed it into the side of his head, stars and whorls exploding across the backs of his eyelids and red pain igniting in his skull. He did it again, this time with the left, knocking her out of his thoughts and back to the hell from which she came.

It didn't work. She clung to him like the stench of the grave, her nails deep, her teeth chewing, her hips rocking, and her sickening heat rubbing his body. He got to his feet and started into the kitchen, not knowing where he was going or what he was doing but needing to be up and moving, she couldn't get him when he was moving, he was safe, outrunning, not a sitting duck. At the threshold, he spun and went in the other direction, images coming faster like flip book animation. Her on her bed, prone and bound, her panties shoved into her mouth; her shaking with fear; her laughing cruelly as the police dragged him off.

Lashing out, he kicked the end table next to Mom's chair; it jumped off the floor and fell to its side, spilling its contents across the carpet: Reading glasses, a mug, the latest issue of _The Weekly World News_ folded in half and sat down with the expectation of being come back to. He kicked it across the room and whipped around, his breathing coming in gasping pants and hot rage clutching his chest.

Mom needed him. If he went over there and...did something...to that girl, she wouldn't have him. He'd be in jail and God only knows what would happen to her. If the doctor was right and she was partially paralyzed, she would need constant care. Who would give it to her if he went back to prison? No one, that's who; they's shove her into a dirty, overcrowded state run nursing home and forget about her. He refused to let that happen.

In the kitchen, he went to the fridge, but diverted at the last second and crossed to the back door like a man being lead through a nightmare. Cold moonlight fell through the segmented window panes, and Lincoln stood transfixed in its glow.

He could be careful.

He could go over, slip in through a window, and creep up the stairs, quiet as a shadow; he could take her, and when he was done….

A shiver raced along his spine. He saw her lying in her bed, her eyes wide and staring, one arm jutting over the side, fingers curled like the legs of a dead spider. He darted his gaze down, and startled when he saw the blood splashed across her chest and the pink comforter as if thrown from a bucket.

Horror pooled like slime in the pit of his stomach…

...and liquid fire filled his erection.

He licked his dry lips and looked around as if for help, but he and his demons were alone.

They would know it was him. He would be the first person they came to.

Even so, he drifted across the kitchen like a dream, partly against his will, and reached out, his arm too long, his hand wide and clumsy. A drawer opened, and his fingers closed around cool metal. He held the knife up, moonlight glinting off its steely edge. He looked at it for a moment, dazed, then to the door.

He'd worry about that later, he decided.

Holding the knife tight, he went to the back door, eased it open, and slipped out into the night, a warm breeze caressing his fevered face like the touch of a ghostly lover. The moon kept indifferent watch, an all-seeing eye wrapped in thin, ragged clouds and hazed with humidity. Crickets conducted a languid nocturne and the wind whispered in the treetops, imparting great and terrible secrets that would drive one to madness if only they listened closer. Lincoln pulled the door closed behind him and crossed the porch, weathered planks creaking under his timid tread. The house next door hoved into view, and his eyes went instinctively to the darkened second story window behind which his angel - and his demon - lurked, perhaps watching with infernal satisfaction, luring him as an angler lures a flopping fish. He gulped and clutched the knife tighter. It could have been his imagination, but he could _feel_ her presence twisting around him like a second skin, peppering phantom kisses across his cheeks and running spectral fingers through his hair. His loins twinged and his teeth brushed his lower lip even as pulsing hatred swelled against the walls of his spirit.

In that moment, he decided, consciously and aloud to himself, that he was going to kill her.

Standing there in the shower of moonlight, he gazed steadily at the inky pane and attempted without success to formulate a coherent plan, his mind wandering off track into fantasies of what he would do to her once they were alone. The last he knew, it was just after eleven, which gave him hours; he could take his time, touch and lick every inch of her body, dress her up like a living doll, a doll that existed solely for his pleasure. Between bouts of violation, he could paint her nails and brush her hair, letting his nose linger over her locks and her skin, deeply inhaling the pungent scent of girl while his fingers kissed her tiny breasts and her soft, squeezable throat. He saw her in socks and panties, dresses hiked up her stomach and nothing at all, her body laid bare before him.

He couldn't stand it anymore; he was going crazy; his body smoldered; his mind ached; he had to have her.

Coming back to himself, he went down the stairs, the last one bending weakly beneath his foot. Tall brown grass brushed the cuffs of his pants as he crept toward the neighboring house, falling reflexively into a half-crouch and threading through the brush like a soldier in in the jungle, the quiet rustle of his passage masked by the crickets and the wind. His heartbeat sped up as he closed the distance, and his erection thundered for release, to be sank into hot, strange, young flesh. He remembered the feeling of the Myers girl and sucked an intake of breath through his teeth. So many times over the years he jacked off in his bunk while stoking the memory like a dying fire; the smell of her hair, the sound of her tears. She fought at first and tried to crawl away, sobbing hysterically and clawing at the dirt, but he dragged her back with an animalistic grunt, thrust his knees between her legs, and forced her thighs apart, her ass spreading to reveal her pink middle, a whiff of her perfume musk wafting into his nose and throwing a primal switch deep in his brain.

He didn't remember much after that, only her on her knees and holding tufts of grass in her hands, weeping hysterically as he slammed into her, ripping through her hymen and battering her tender cervix. Her passage narrowed around him as if trying to crush him for daring to enter, and when he swelled with his climax, she howled in pain. During the trial, they said she was torn, bruised, and ruptured in multiple places, and that she would probably never be able to enjoy sex without physical discomfort. He took perverse pride in that fact: He marked his territory, made her his, and ruined her for all men who might come after. She would forever belong to him, and so, too, would the girl next door.

Reaching the side of the house, he slithered along the wall toward the living room window, his body flattening against the vinyl siding. When he got there, he knelt in the soft earth and looked suspiciously around; the night was alone, the street empty, the surrounding houses dark. He huddled close to the wall nevertheless, making himself smaller, harder to see. If a car passed, its headlights might reveal him. He had to be quick.

The girl was waiting.

Calling.

Beckoning.

He pushed up to his feet, rising above the sill, and froze in terror. A face stared back at him from the glass, its features contorted inhumanly and its eyes wide, seething pools of black. His jaw fell slack, and the thing opened its yawning mouth as if to suck out his soul. His heart leapt into his throat, and he fell back a step, a shocked gasp bursting from his constricted throat. The thing matched his movement, fading into the shadows, and the nightmarish realization struck him that the monster...the appalling, abhorrent apparition…

Was him.

His depraved lust, his rage, his loathing, all fled away from him, and in their place came drawing horror. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he swung around, running from what he had become, his mind bending and sobs escaping his throat, trailing behind him like the mournful lament of a damned spirit. He stumbled up the steps, tripped, and landed hard on his knees, then pushed up and fled into the house, slamming through the door just as the dam burst and he began to weep, his hands flying to his face to hide his disgusting countenance from the world. His knees grew weak, and he dropped to his butt, his back against the cabinet and his knees pressing to his chest.

He didn't want to be a monster! He didn't want people to hate him! He wanted friends and a place in life, not to know that he was always an outsider. It wasn't fair! It wasn't! He prayed so hard for these feelings to go away, and for a while they did, but look at him now, _this_ close to killing someone and going back to prison, and for what?

That dirty _thing_ between his legs, the source of all his problems. From the moment he hit puberty, it was constantly pumping poison into his blood, clouding his judgement, torturing him.

A snatchet of Bible verse came to him, and his stomach turned.

It was the only way...the only thing that could possibly free him from the millstone 'round his neck. He blinked his tears away and peered through his fingers.

Shimmering in the light of the moon like the surface of a placid pond, the knife lay next to him.

* * *

Chandler Briggs held the gun in his hand like a talisman, his index finger stroking the trigger guard and his thumb brushing the grip. Its weight was warm and comforting, its shape _right_. He carried a half dozen guns over the years, but none fit in his palm like the Glock; it was almost as though it were made for him and him alone.

He didn't know how long he sat behind the wheel before getting out, but it was long enough for his nerves to burn off some of the booze in his brain and leave him relatively sober. His murky thinking cleared, and he realized just what he was about to do.

Murder.

The act itself did not bother him, even as it pertained to Mrs. Loud, a comparative innocent, but the prospect of slipping up and being arrested did. He had a wife and a daughter at home, both of whom loved and needed him just as keenly as he loved and needed them. Walking into that house and wasting the Louds would jeopardize everything he held dear, and potentially hurt the very people he sought to protect.

Evil like Lincoln Loud could not be allowed to flourish, though, for evil is not content to rest on its laurels, it must always be at work. The court system let him out on the street, and legally, there was nothing he or anyone else could do until he did it again. How's _that_ for justice? Letting a known menace run free and acting only after the damage has been done. He hadn't broken any laws that Chandler was aware of, but he would.

It was up to him to stop it before it happened. It fell to _him_ to stand between Loud and the children of Royal Woods.

Closing his eyes, Chandler bowed his head over the steering wheel and prayed that he would be strong and do what needed doing, even if it meant beating an old woman's head in with the butt of his gun and suffocating her with a pillow. _Especially_ if it meant beating an old woman's head in with the butt of his gun and suffocating her with a pillow. He prayed that he wouldn't be caught, and that if he was, the jury would be staffed by moral, upright Americans, and not communist fuckwad liberals who hated unborn babies but loved convicted killers. When he was done, he tapped the barrel of the gun to his forehead, then to the center of his chest, then to each breast in a rough cross. _Head, chest, booby, booby,_ they used to say as kids, giggling and blushing because the word _booby_ was dirty.

For some reason, an image came to mind: Jordan in her confirmation dress. She was fourteen and beautiful with blonde hair and crystal blue eyes that made your heart stop when they looked at you. That was the day he asked her out for the first time - he pined from afar for two whole years, too shy to approach her as more than a friend, but seeing her in that dress and standing proudly at the altar, her hands behind her back and an elfin smile on her lips, decided him...he would make her his girlfriend or die trying. He approached her after the ceremony, shaking and coughing, and blurted _Will you go to the movies with me?_ They'd been friends for years and often did things together, but there must have been something in the air, because she blushed as she shrugged and said _sure_. Two days later they saw _The Ghost and Mr. Chicken_ at the Palace Theater, and at one point, her hand crept into his and their fingers weaved together, sending his heart into the stratosphere and his head into the clouds. Nothing, not even their first time together, felt as good and satisfying as holding her hand.

That was the year _I Think We're Alone Now_ by Tommy James and The Shondells was all over AM radio, and to him, it was always their song - they were two kids running just as fast as they could, holding onto one another's hands, the only sound the beating of their hearts. Every time he heard it now, he smiled wistfully to himself and remembered a simpler time, a time when they had to hide what they were doing when they were alone.

He opened his eyes in the year 1987, two decades later, and the world was different, colder, bleaker, the streets dirty and the warm, sepia-toned hues of 1966 given way to the harsh fluorescent sting of the present. The world was not perfect then - the war in Vietnam was heating up, Civil Rights marchers were being sprayed in water canons, and a man with a rifle took up position in a bell tower in Texas - but it was a whole lot fucking better than it was now.

As the poem says, the center cannot hold; things fall apart.

Yeah...not if he could help it.

He threw the door open and got out into the night. A warm breeze redolent of freshly cut grass blew over him, and shafts of moonlight filtered through the trees lining the street. Shoving the gun into the waistband of his pants, he went to the trunk, took out his keys, and opened it. He swayed slightly as he rummaged around for his tools, finding first a long handled flashlight then, next, a small black case with a zipper. Inside was a set of lock picking tools he swiped from the evidence locker - never knew when they might come in handy. He jammed it into his back pocket, held the flashlight flat against his leg so no one would see it if they happened past, and glanced around. The street stood empty, the sidewalks deserted.

A siren rose in the distance, and his body went rigid - in a flash, he was kneeling over Deke again, trying desperately to keep him from slipping away.

The spell broke just as suddenly as it came, and he was back in the moon dappled shadows, his heart throbbing and his stomach spinning. Ahead, 1216 stood dark and foreboding, like a vampire-haunted castle high on a craggy Transylvanian mountaintop. Chandler stared up at it with a rush of trepidation, then forced himself to cross the street, the soles of his shoes clicking forlornly on the blacktop. On the other side, he glanced around once more, then started up the driveway, ducking low and hurrying to the car facing the garage, slipping behind its cover and kneeling next to the back passenger tire. The best way to go in, he figured, would be the back door; better than climbing through a window and tripping up. He wasn't as drunk as he was when he arrived, but he still wasn't steady enough to pull off a perfect entry. He didn't know the layout of the house, but he'd been in a few like it, and if he was lucky, there would be a set of backstairs leading from the kitchen to the second floor, giving him more direct access. He'd have to find Loud's room by trial and error, killing whoever he came across.

It was just Loud and his mother, right? He tilted his head to the side and tried to remember - he saw the paperwork the court filed on the pedo's behalf, and it specifically stated the number of occupants in the house. He _thought_ it was just them...hoped it was.

His heart twinged when he imagined coming across a child.

What would he do then?

He didn't know what he'd do, and that sent an electric ripple of fear through his chest. He could _never_ envision himself harming a child, but if he encountered one, one old enough to tell and describe him to the police, would he really let them live?

His mind went to Charlotte, his little girl, to the day she was born. Someone (his father? A guy at the station?) told him _when your baby's born, you're gonna cry like a woman._ He blew a dismissive raspberry and waved his hand...metaphorically speaking. The last time he cried, he was ten and wrecked his bike, flipping over the handlebars and tumbling along the pavement like a rag doll - it was a bad spill and if it happened to him today, he'd probably cry again. As a man, he was not emotional or sentimental. He reckoned he'd be happy and proud when Charlotte was born, but literal tears? No way.

Then he held her for the first time, a small, pink, wrinkly thing swaddled in a white blanket, her eyes big, dark, and filled with wonder...and he cried with unashamed abandon.

No, he couldn't hurt a child, even if it meant being fingered and taken away from his own child. There shouldn't be one in there though, even as a guest.

He hoped.

Gripping the flashlight tighter, he broke from cover and darted around the side of the garage, his feet kicking through tangles of dry grass. At the corner, he leaned against the wall and peeked his head around, scanning the moonlit backyard for any signs of life and finding none. Emboldened, he slipped around the corner and hurried to the porch, ducking next to the stairs and craning his neck to the see the back door. No lights shone in the kitchen, suggesting Loud and his mother were both asleep.

As he gazed at the door, he started to have second thoughts. Once he crossed the threshold, there would be no going back, he'd be committed. He asked himself, again, of he could really go through with it, and like Pharaoh in the Bible, his heart hardened, which he took as a sign that he could.

Still crouching, he slunk around and crept up the stairs, his heart slamming in his throat. A board creaked beneath his foot, and his breath caught. He paused, waited for a light to snap on or a cry of alarm to go up, but none did, and he continued, moving across the porch with ethereal fluidity, like a man in a dream. He pressed his back to the left of the door and leaned over to peer in; a shaft of moonlight lay along the floor in a narrow bar. He reached for the handle and tried it.

Unlocked.

He swallowed, pulled the gun out of his pants, and pushed the door open, old hinges moaning in low, cemetery tones. He went in, closed it behind him, and clicked the flashlight on, the beam cleaving through the darkness, dust motes swirling like wind-driven snow. He crossed his hands at the wrist, aligning the barrel of the Glock and the light, and listened intently, straining to hear over the crashing of his own heart and the ragged sound of his own breathing. He heard nothing, then swept the kitchen, the white shaft gliding along a wall, cabinets, a coffee maker, the sink, a microwave oven, then the archway to the dining room.

A whimper stopped him cold. It came again, and he jerked the light down and to the right. When he saw what it divulged, his heart stopped.

Loud sat on the floor, his back against a bank of cabinets and his legs splayed before him in a V; his head lolled to one side, face clenched in pain. Chandler's eyes traveled from the pedophile's sweaty countenance down to his heaving chest, then, finally, to his lap and the horror therein. His pants were around his knees, and blood gushed from a gaping wound between his hips, smearing across the floor like spreading ink. Something lie next to his leg, and when Chandler realized it was a severed penis, a shock of revulsion struck him like a closed fist to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs with an _umph._

The handle of a knife rested in Loud's palm, the blade slick with red. Loud panted for air, slowly turned his head, and opened his eyes; they shimmered with misery and his features bunched in agony.

Numbness, like he felt that afternoon, spread through Chandler. He crossed to the wounded man, knelt, and stared at him, the light reflecting on the silvery tears streaking down his shadowy face. It was clear what he did and why, and for the first time in his life, he felt a tiny measure of respect for the pedophile.

Then he thought of the Myers girl, of how she was so brutalized she could never have children, never experience the joy of giving life and holding her baby in her arms the way he held Charlotte, and it was gone.

He reached out, closed his hand over Loud's, forcing the injured man's fingers around the hilt, and guided the blade to his neck. Loud stared beseechingly into his eyes, searching for understanding and sympathy that was not there. "Now cut your throat."

Loud's eyes widened with fear.

Chandler leaned in, his hot, boozy breath breaking over Lincoln's nose like the rank heat of a crematorium. "Do it," Chandler said, his voice low and menacing. "You're a monster. You deserve it."

It was true, he _was_ a monster, Lincoln realized that when he glimpsed his reflection in the window next door. He was evil, cursed, a demonic creature in the guise of a human being. He was unloved by everyone except his mother, and he'd caused her so much grief over the years, fifteen years of constant worry and longing. The only person who cared about him and he hurt her.

A wave of nausea lightheadedness came upon him, and hot, stinging pain throbbed through his entire body. He felt woozy and sick...sick to his stomach, and sick of the neverending torment, sick of hurting his mother, sick of not being normal.

Sick of being a pedophile.

Chandler held his hand, the serrated blade of the knife biting into the soft flesh of his jugular. His face was hard and cold, cast in shadows. Lincoln swallowed and closed his eyes, shutting out the terrible sight, the result of his crimes and their impact on the world made manifest.

"Do it," Chandler hissed, "do the world a favor and _die_."

Lincoln's tears came faster. He did so much wrong to so many people, doing this one small thing, a quick and single flick of the wrist, would atone. In Japan, he read, men who have been dishonored disembowel themselves with swords to regain their lost respect. Lincoln lost respect for himself twenty years ago, and everyone, including, he imagined, his mother, lost respect for him in 1972.

He thought of Mom, of his sisters, none of whom wanted to talk to him, like he was a disease. And after what he did to the Myers girl, could he really blame them? He didn't just hurt her, he enjoyed hurting her.

Chandler was right.

He deserved this.

Gulping, he squeezed his eyes closed, tightened his grip on the knife, and took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

In the darkness, he saw every suspicious stare, every dirty look, every brow-knitting scowl of hate. He could have been normal, he could have controlled his urges, he could have had a good job, a family, could have been someone. Instead, he threw it all away because he was selfish.

But not now...not ever again.

He bore down on his teeth, sucked one final breath, and jerked the blade across his throat. Flesh tore, blood spilled down the front of his shirt in a torrent, and suddenly, he was sleepy, warm fog filling his head and his muscles relaxing.

Chandler let his hand fall, and the last thing Lincoln heard before he slept was the knife clattering to the floor.

* * *

 **This is not the final chapter. I have a very short epilogue but I don't know whether I should go with it or write something else, therefore, I'm enlisting you, the reader, to help me decide. In light of what happened in this chapter (Lincoln essentially admitting that he enjoyed hurting little girls and not** _ **just**_ **having sex with them), how do you feel about Chandler? Should he get away with what he did, or should he be nailed?**


	8. The Ides of March

**Alright, the results are in and it's almost unanimous. You wanted to see Chandler get his, so he's getting his. I tacked my original ending on as a alternate. I put time and effort into it (not much, admittedly) so I'm not going to just throw it in the trash. Next up is an AU Lynncoln story set on a hospital ship during WWI. I hope to see you there.**

* * *

Chandler sat at a table with his head hanged, sweaty gray-brown hair hanging in his face and veiling his bleary, pink rimmed eyes. A Styrofoam cup of coffee sat before him next to an overfull ashtray. He'd never been a smoker, but he picked up the habit fairly quickly once he wound up here. He also picked up the habit of looking over his shoulder. His kind wasn't very popular among the other inmates, and it seemed that out of every ten faces, he recognized three.

And they recognized him.

The ugly purple-black bruise on his cheek ached on cue, and the tip of his tongue absently prodded the hole where his front tooth had been...until it was knocked out of his head with a soap filled sock. He'd learned to do a lot of things over the past sixteen years...and take a beating was one of them. The trick was to curl up and not fight back. Fighting back only made it worse. And, God, don't snitch afterward. If a guard asked where you got the awful new shiner, you told him you ran into a door.

Beatdowns didn't happen as frequently as they used to. Most of the guys he put here were older now and more mellow. In the beginning, they happened two or even three times a week. In the cafeteria line, in the library, on the yard, even in the shower; three or four men would rush in while you were naked and defenseless and pummel you until you were laid out on the floor and your blood sluiced down the drain. "Fuckin' pig!" they'd yell as they kicked you, and all you could do was take it. At first, he fought back, but the guy would come back weeks or even months later and take revenge. In 1989, someone stuck a shiv into his guts over a year old slight, and in 1991, one of the cooks threw boiling water in his face, scalding him so badly that he carried the scars to this day, twelve years later.

For a while, he begged the warden to move him to administrative segregation. In 1992, his request was granted.

And they stuck him in with a pedophile.

Two weeks later, he was back in general population, and the other inmates greeted him with taunts, jeers, cries of "Pig!", and another shanking..

The most recent assault came courtesy of a young punk who didn't like Chandler being white. It wasn't the worst beating he'd ever taken. In fact, it didn't even hurt.

Presently, the door opened and Chandler looked up, his heartbeat quickening in anticipation. A beefy guard, his stomach straining against his brown uniform shirt, stepped in, and behind him a tall, slender woman with dirty blonde hair dressed in brown billowy pants and a purple blouse. She held a white bundle in her arms.

"Hi, Daddy," Charlotte said.

Chandler hadn't smiled in so long that doing so felt strange. "Hi, sweetie," he said and got stiffly to his feet, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the tile floor. He wore an orange jumpsuit unzipped to the naval and a white T-shirt beneath. His chin was covered in grayish stubble and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. He was ashamed for her to see him this way, but that was a feeling he'd grown accustomed to.

She came over and presented her cheek, and he kissed it. He looked down at the baby in her arms, its pink, scrubbed face staring up from the folds of a blanket, and his smile grew even bigger. "That's him?" he asked in bemusement.

"That's him," Charlotte confirmed. She tickled the baby's chin, and he squirmed. "Say hi to Grandpa?" she cooed.

The baby's big, dark eyes met Chandler's, and Chandler tentatively tapped him on the nose. "Hi," he said. "Nice to finally meet you."

Born January 17, David Michael was two months and twelve days old today. Chandler had been impatiently waiting to meet him since he talked to Charlotte on the phone just after the delivery, and finally seeing his grandson for the first time somehow made his existence real in a way that pictures never could.

"Would you like to hold him?" Charlotte asked.

"Sure," Chandler said. She handed the baby over, and Chandler took him with the care and reverence a Catholic might use when handling an ancient and holy relic. David stared up at him with wide-eyed alarm, and Chandler chuckled.

Still holding the baby, he sat across from Charlotte and sighed in contentment. For the first time in years, he was happy. That happiness was tinged with sadness, however, because he knew that the reunion would be too brief, too unfulfilling, as they always were. "How was the drive?" Chandler asked and gently rocked his grandson.

Pine Creek State Prison, where Chandler had been a guest since April 15, 1988, was located in the far reaches of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, five hours from downtown Royal Woods. Owing to the distance, Charlotte rarely made it out, but she came as often as she could. "It was okay," she said, "he slept most of it but had a poopy explosion in the parking lot." She laughed airily and crossed her legs. "I had to _completely_ change him. Clothes, blanket, everything."

"You had your fair share of disasters," Chandler said with a wistful grin. "It'd get all up your back and into your hair too."

"His wasn't _that_ bad, but it was still pretty bad."

The baby thrashed, and Chandler shushed him. "How's your mom?"

"She's alright," Charlotte said, "busy with work."

After the trial, Jordan divorced him and eventually remarried. He hadn't seen her since the last time she brought Charlotte to see him in 1996. She was just as beautiful then as she was nine years before, and it hurt to know that he lost her.

She wasn't the only thing he lost. He lost his job, his friends, and sixteen years of his daughter's life...nearly her entire childhood. Jordan brought her seldom, and every time she did, Charlotte was just a little older, a little farther down the path to adulthood. He loved seeing her, but those hasty visits were little better than the snapshots Jordan sent through the mail. He could look at her...he could even hug her after a while...but he couldn't be there for her. He couldn't watch in real time as she opened her presents on Christmas morning, couldn't play tea party with her, couldn't do anything but gaze at a fleeting image and wish that he was in it.

He lost everything...and for what?

Loud?

That thought always brought a bitter laugh. Back then, in the long ago summer of 1987, he thought of himself as being at war with the pedophile. If so, Loud won.

 _We know it was you,_ Steve Harkins said. A pudgy man with a thin mustache and a receding hairline who always wore a white shirt accented by a perpetually loosened black tie, Steve was one of Royal Woods' senior detectives - his desk was three over from Chandler's, and they often had drinks together after work.

 _I swear to God, it wasn't me,_ Chandler sobbed.

That was a week after he broke into Loud's house and less than twenty-four hours after two of his colleagues - Bill Wilson and Hank Stone - collared him as he was getting into his car to go to the grocery store. _Chandler Briggs,_ Hank said in a low, practiced tone completely unlike his normal speaking voice, _you're under arrest for the murder of Lincoln Loud._

 _Your prints are all over that knife,_ Steve said, _and the shoeprint the perp left in Loud's blood matches the shoe we took from your closet. I bet if we put you in a line up, that little girl's gonna pick_ you.

The little girl...the very girl he was trying to protect. Why she was standing at her window well past midnight...how she could have seen him...he didn't know, but she was and she did.

 _You can't deny you were in that house, Chandler._

 _I didn't kill him,_ Chandler moaned. _I didn't._

 _Then what we you doing there? That back door lock was picked, and we took a lock picking kit from your car. Even your own wife says you were stalking him. All of that adds up to the most clear cut case of guilt I've ever seen. Don't bullshit me. Why did you do it?_

Breaking down, he told him the truth...or a version of it. He claimed that he was there to check on things and make sure Loud didn't have a child locked up somewhere. When he went in, he found the pedophile on the floor, then enticed him to cut his throat.

Steve didn't buy it. _That's a crock and you know it._

 _It's the truth, I swear!_

 _No it's not. You went into that house, you cut a man's penis off, then you slit his throat in cold blood. You have two choices here, buddy, and I'm only telling you this because I considered you a friend. You can take this to trial and risk getting the gas chamber - since torture committed in the commission of a murder is a capital offense - or you can tell the truth._

It took Chandler a week of sleepless nights to decide.

He plead guilty. The judge handed down a twenty-five to life sentence, with the possibility of parole after twenty, and took a moment to chastise him in front of the entire courtroom...and TV cameras from as far away as Chicago. _You were sworn to uphold the law, Mr. Briggs, but you instead took it into your own hands and defiled it. You abused your power and went against the decent principles of law and order. A man like you should never have been a police officer; you do a disservice to all the good men and women of law enforcement, and frankly, you make me sick. Get out of my courtroom._

The baby kicked in Chandler's lap, bringing him out of his reprieve. "How about Zack?"

Zack was Charlotte's husband. He was an army corporal stationed at Fort Hellman in Ann Arbor.

"He's getting ready," Charlotte said hesitantly. Several days ago, U.S. forces invaded Iraq to topple long time dictator Saddam Hussein. There was a chance that Zack would be deployed at some point. "It probably won't happen," Charlotte added quickly. She sounded like she was trying to convince not him but herself. "We thought he'd go to Afghanistan too, but that didn't happen." Her brow furrowed as though she'd just noticed something. "What happened to your face?"

"I tripped," Chandler said, and flashed a winsome smile, "my shoelaces were untied."

She nodded slowly, obviously not buying the lie but humoring him anyway. "Anything else interesting happen?"

"Not really," he said.

"Well, that's good."

It was, for in prison, _interesting_ things were often _bad_ things. "I like it that way."

They chatted a while longer, then the guard, who stood in one corner with his hands clasped in front of him, signaled that it was time to wrap up. Chandler kissed his grandson on the forehead then reluctantly turned him over to his mother, whom he kissed as well. "I love you," he said earnestly.

"I love you too, Daddy," Charlotte replied. "Please be safe, okay?"

"I will," he assured her.

The guard lead them out, and with a sigh, Chandler sank back into his chair. He slipped a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. He took a drag, blew it out in a long plume...then burst out crying. He hung his head, covered his face with his hands, and shook with the power of his sobs, the high, kneading sound echoing off the cinder block walls like the lament of a damned spirit through the chambers of hell. He loved seeing Charlotte, but he hated it too, because he never felt more gutted...and more like a failure as a father and a man...than he did when she left.

If only he could go back in time...if only he could grab his past self by the front of his shirt and make him see that Loud wasn't the one who would hurt his family... _he_ was.

He was still crying when the guard took him back to his cell, and the roaring taunts, jeers, laughter, and insults ("Bitch!" "Fag!" "Cry for papi, _maricón_ ") only made him cry harder.

Almost twenty years ago, he looked into Lincoln Loud's dying eyes and called him a monster. _You deserve it_.

Now, sitting on the edge of his bed, he realized nothing.

He and Lincoln…

...they weren't so different. Both gave into their darkest urges and threw their lives away.

And in the end...they both deserved their fate.

 ** _Alternate Ending_**

Rain drizzled from the churning sky and pelted the top of Chandler's hanged head and the stooped ridges of his slumped shoulders. Jordan stood on one side of him, her hand resting comfortingly between his shoulder blades, and Charlotte on the other, her tiny hand in his.

It was mid-afternoon and the coffin, topped with a lush wreath of flowers and suspended over the grave in which it would pass eternity, was surrounded by more people than Chandler could count, ranks and ranks of somber faces, some in suits, others in dresses, but many in dress uniforms - peaked caps, Sam Browne belts, brass buttons, and white gloves, cops from across the country come to pay their respects to a fallen comrade.

The priest, whom Chandler did not know, stood by the casket and spoke words of everlasting life. Chandler stared at his feet, because every time he looked up, his eyes were drawn inexorably to the framed photo of Deke Jones mounted among the flowers, and seeing his friend's frozen smile turned his stomach. He looked like he was mocking the funeral goers.

Something tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down into his daughter's upturned face, her brow furrowed in concern. She held a pink umbrella with a picture of Barbie on it over her head, the rain making a steady, monotonous tap-tap-tap on the canvas. "Do you wanna use my Barbie?" she asked solemnly. "You're getting wet."

Chandler smiled softly and squeezed her hand. "No, honey, I'm fine," he said, "but thank you."

She regarded him for a moment as if trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not, then turned back to the the coffin. Jordan's hand crept to his shoulder, and he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her protectively to his side. Next to her, Jeanette Jones, her somber features hidden behind a black veil, stared into space, one hand dabbing a tissue to her eye and the other holding her daughter's hand. Chandler looked away and focused instead on the honor guard standing slightly apart from the proceedings, the butts of their rifles planted in the ground and their hands curled around the barrels, faces like stone and legs far apart. Chandler glanced hurriedly away - they way they stood reminded him of Lincoln Loud.

The rain picked up, sprinkling the congregation like holy water from a baptismal septer. The priest finished his reading, and Mayor Harris delivered a short speech that Chandler ignored: It was all lip service, come from a man who actively worked to cut police funding. If he had his way, there'd be one of these funerals every week, and he'd treat it like a political event, smiling for the cameras and offering pithy words that all meant the same thing... _vote for me in November._

After that, the honor guard lifted their rifles, moving stiffly and with choreographed precision, and fired fired a 21 gun salute, the whip crack of the reports echoing through the vast burying ground. The bagpipe brigade struck up, and the Chief presented Jeanette with a folded flag and a salute.

At the end of it all, everyone began to drift away, spreading out through the graveyard like ants freed from an ant farm. Jordan walked with Jeanette, imparting words of encouragement and love, and Chandler's grip on Charlotte's hand tightened. He looked down at her, and fierce love knotted in his breast. He glanced up, and paused when he saw another funeral in the distance, an awning set up to shield the mourners from the rain. A scant dozen people sat in folding chairs, too far away for him to see their faces. A minister in a white robe read from the Bible, and two bored looking gravediggers stood nearby, resting on their shovels and watching with detachment.

Coldness crept through him and a shiver ran down his spine; Lincoln Loud's face, pale and slack with death, flickered across his mind like a bad dream, and his stomach rolled. Charlotte looked up at him and tilted her head in confusion. "Daddy, are you okay?"

Chandler's gaze lingered on the meager ceremony taking place across the cemetery, then slowly, with great effort, he turned to his little girl and forced a smile he did not feel. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said.

Holding her hand tighter, they went off into the gathering rain, leaving the Louds to bury their own.

* * *

 **The point of the original ending was supposed to be that justice is not always done and sometimes, people who do bad things get away with it.**


End file.
